


Last Sunshine

by clawstoagunfight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dancer Derek, Dancer Stiles, Dancing, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, M/M, Medication, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rehabilitation, Rimming, Safer Sex, Slow Build, Smoking, Sobriety, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Uncle/Nephew Incest, mild violence, versatile!Sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 80,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clawstoagunfight/pseuds/clawstoagunfight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Scott, you are aware that it’s weird for you to take almost your entire group of friends to go see your stripper boyfriend strip, right?” </p><p>or </p><p>The one in which almost everyone dances, some just more professionally than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta, [thewolfthatwrites](http://thewolfthatwrites.tumblr.com/), and [deucalionfireofmyloins](http://deucalionfireofmyloins.tumblr.com/) for being amazing, supportive friends.
> 
> There is a playlist to accompany this fic, which can be found [here](https://8tracks.com/clawstoagunfight/last-sunshine).
> 
> This is my one and only warning for everyone to PLEASE READ THE TAGS. I will tag everything I can think of, because this story has a lot of potential triggers. If I miss anything, please let me know. Tags will be updated as I post new chapters.
> 
> Lyrics at the beginning are from the song 2923 Monroe St. by Fireworks.
> 
>  
> 
> *The rape/non-con elements refer to events that happen in flashbacks in this story.

_So even if this is the last sunshine_   
_Let's warm ourselves in it_   
_We'll just spend the rest of our days in the shade_

 

 

 

**\---**

 

_It’s the weekend and he’s going to stay at his uncle’s house again. Derek loves going to see Uncle Peter, loves spending time with him. He’s Derek’s favorite person in the world. Uncle Peter lets Derek watch whatever he wants on his awesome TV, lets him eat anything he can stomach, and best of all, Uncle Peter lets him sleep in the same bed with him._

_Mom hasn’t let him sleep in bed with her for a long time now—_ weeks _. She just keeps saying that Derek’s becoming a big boy and he needs to start sleeping alone now. But Derek doesn’t want to sleep alone. He’s afraid of the dark and the monsters that could be under the bed. After he finally told Uncle Peter one time, the older man just smiled down at him—a big smile that made his eyes look kind of funny—and he told Derek that he wouldn’t have to be alone, that he’d take care of him._

_So Uncle Peter let Derek sleep in the big bed with him. It was nice—feeling so warm and protected—and Derek doesn’t even mind the dark at Uncle Peter’s house, because he bought a small nightlight just for him, and it makes Derek feel special. He wonders if Uncle Peter also let’s Laura sleep in the bed with him, but he hopes not. He hopes that it’s just because he likes Derek better._

_It isn’t until a long time later—months—that something changes. At first he doesn’t really notice. He thinks that his uncle is asleep behind him because his hands are stroking over Derek’s belly like they sometimes do when he’s asleep, but then Derek feels a hand move down and under the band of his Spiderman pajama pants. His uncle’s hands are moving until they are between his legs and it feels strange and weird and Derek wonders if he should say something. Mom always tells him that it’s not good to let other people see that part and that no one should touch him there, but it’s Uncle Peter, and he isn’t hurting him—it doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t hurt, so Derek just lies there._

_He realizes that Uncle Peter isn’t asleep when he feels the pants he’s wearing being pulled down a little bit, and then one of the hands between his legs moves to touch his butt and Derek lets out a nervous giggle—because Uncle Peter is touching his_ butt _and it kind of tickles._

_But then the older man is moving behind him until he’s looming over Derek with a smile on his face. “Why are you laughing?” He whispers as he keeps moving a hand over Derek’s bottom._

_“It tickles.” The boy lets out a small laugh._

_The older man just hums and moves the hand off of his butt. Derek thinks that maybe that’s it, and it was just a new game of tickle attack, but then Uncle Peter is pulling down his own pants and touching himself between his legs, the same way that he’s still touching Derek._

_“Does this tickle then?” Uncle Peter asks, moving the hand in Derek’s pants in a different way. It still feels strange and Derek doesn’t really understand. “Kinda?”_

_He watches as Uncle Peter moves the hand that’s between his own legs. “This kinda tickles me too.” The man bites his lips. “You can try tickling me here, if you want to, Derek.”_

_It must be a new game. Derek doesn’t know what the rules are but he likes spending time with Uncle Peter, and he seems to really like this game, so Derek reaches out his small hand and presses it to his uncle’s larger one. “Okay.”_

 

Derek’s eyes flutter open and he drags as much air into his lungs as he can, rolling out from under the sweat-soiled sheets tangling around his body like a vice. He rushes out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom as fast as he can, barely making it to the toilet in time before he loses the contents of his stomach. It wasn’t a lot, not this time, thank god. Derek thinks he probably forgot to eat again, but then dry heaves are wracking his body and he forgets to think.

Eventually, when his body is limp and the heaving has stopped, Derek slumps down onto the floor, letting the cold from the tile chill his flushed skin, and he presses his cheek against it, closing his eyes. He tries not to think about the dream, tries to pretend like the memory hasn’t surfaced, like the nightmare never happened. But he remembers.

He remembers when it started. He tries so hard not to remember some days, tries so hard not to think about everything that happened after that first time—but then, it flashes in his mind out of nowhere, and he remembers it in such vivid detail that it makes him physically sick, like today, makes the bile rise up in his throat and shame and humiliation flood his body.

The best days are when he doesn’t have to think about it, when the thoughts are all just one giant blur inside of his head, and he can’t focus on one thing over all of the other memories. There are too many, so many, and they are all like so many grains of sand—he lets them slip through the fingers of his mind gratefully and without thought.

After a while, Derek picks himself up off of the bathroom floor and brushes his teeth, trying desperately to look anywhere but at the reflection staring back at him through the broken spot of the mirror. He catches the replica in the mirror anyway, though, and sucks in a breath at the face staring back. The pale, thin skin under his eyes is bruised, his eyes are bloodshot, and his lower lip is scabbed over from where it was split yesterday. He doesn’t miss that his hair is too long and stringy, and he wonders when the last time he showered was.

He takes in the way his hand is starting to shake and curses to himself— _at_ himself—before he walks out of the room and back to his bedroom. Picking up his pack of cigarettes from atop his dresser, he pulls one out and lights it up before he takes a deep drag. He breathes in the smoke and feels the familiar faint buzz flare to life inside of him—like a silent hum that reminds him he’s more than just a target for nightmares and bad memories.

The knock on his door still seems to catch him unaware and he flinches.

“Derek. How many times do I have to ask you not to smoke inside?”

Derek just takes another drag before he walks over to the door and opens it enough for green eyes to stare at him with an unimpressed look. He lifts an eyebrow and releases the smoke from his lungs, blowing it into his sister’s face. “Don’t tell me what to do, Laura.” He ignores the hurt look that flashes across her features when he slams the door closed a second later.

He puts the butt out on the ashtray he keeps on his bedside table. It’s full—somehow, already—the filters smoke-singed and ashes flaked everywhere, gray and white and black—like a hazy kaleidoscope of probable lung cancer. Derek thinks about cleaning it out, but then the numbers on his cell phone catch his attention and he swears again.

 

~

 

He’s late— _again_ —and he didn’t even get to take a quick shower to rinse the sweat and smoke from his skin like he would’ve liked. He knew he should’ve showered after Laura came to talk to him, but he smoked another cigarette and by the time he made it back to the bathroom, Cora was in there, getting ready for a date or something. He stopped listening right around the time it was apparent that she wasn’t actually going to come out, just talk at him through the door.

He makes it to the club and sighs as he walks in the back door, avoiding the line of people he already saw wrapped around the building waiting for entry. It’s not like not showering will matter much anyway by the end of the night, but he normally likes to look presentable. Normally. The club is already dark, not quite open to the public yet, and he knows he probably has a few minutes and if he’s lucky, he can get ready without anyone noticing his time slip.

“Hale!” He sighs and turns to see the night manager walking toward him, pushing the glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “You’re late. Again.”

Derek lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “And you’re making me later by talking to me. So if you don’t mind…” Derek starts to turn away, but the hand on his shoulder stops him enough that he turns around almost instantly, grabbing at the appendage and twisting. He ignores the man’s grunt of pain. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch me, Harris? Next time I won’t be so nice.”

The man whimpers and Derek lets go, heading back to the employees space. He goes to his locker and quickly changes into his uniform, grimacing at the constricting material. He shivers a little—the back is always too cold, but he knows he’ll thank the club for the air conditioning later.

He grabs a granola bar from the bottom of his locker and is eating it when the door opens and Danny walks in, clad in only a very, very small white tanga. He’s sparkling all over and Derek tries to not tell the other man that he might’ve gone overboard with the shimmer today, but then Danny is smiling at him and flashing his dimples and Derek finds himself smiling back. “Hey, man. Is that a new costume?”

Derek looks down at the outfit he’s wearing. It’s nothing that different than his usual. He’s got on a dark navy atrocity that resembles a jockstrap, with more straps of material that wrap up around his hips and waist and down on his legs, showcasing the curvature of his body. He knows he looks good, and he paid good money for it, so he just shrugs and gives Danny a small grin.

Danny shakes his head and goes to his locker to get out the finishing touches for his own costume. It’s almost always the same thing when he wears white. He pulls on the wings with minimal fuss and Derek watches. The wings should look obscene and cliché, but on Danny, they are just understated enough that they highlight the exotic tone to his skin and his muscle mass. “Oh, Isaac wanted me to ask if you’d mind switching with him tonight. He said something about having a few friends come by and he wanted to get off early so he could hang with them for a bit.”

Derek frowns at the other man. “Why didn’t he just ask me himself?”

Danny shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe because you never do anything for anyone else and he figured I have more of a chance of getting you to say yes?”

It’s a question, but not really, and Derek makes a noncommittal sound in response. “Fine.”

Danny stills and looks over at him, more shimmer powder raised up to his chest. “Wait. What? Did you really just agree to switch with Isaac?”

Derek just narrows his eyes at Danny. “Did I stutter?”

The other man opens and closes his mouth a couple times before he closes the distance between himself and Derek and giving the man a _very_ awkward hug. It feels more like a back-assed attempt at strangulation, but Derek knows the gesture for what it is. “Thank you, thank you! Isaac will be so happy!”

“Danny, stop. You’re getting shimmer all over me.”

Danny lets him go with an evil smirk. “Well, not all over, but that can be arranged.” He reaches out with his brush and fluffs shimmer powder all over Derek’s torso before reaching around to get at his bare butt cheeks.

Isaac chooses that moment to walk in clad in an aqua and gold monstrosity, and stops dead at the display in front of him. “Um. Did I miss something…?”

Derek turns to the other man. “Well, if you were to blink right now, you might miss me killing Danny.”

“Derek no!” Danny chides, all but running away from the other man. “You can’t kill me! I’m Eros! You can’t kill love, dude!”

“Run.” He says in a low voice, ignoring the laughter coming from both of the other men before he turns back to Isaac. “Also, I’m switching you tonight, so I hope you’re ready. You go on in ten.”

“Derek, you are the actual best!” Isaac practically shouts and makes like he’s going to hug attack Derek like Danny did but Derek holds up his hand and Isaac seems to think better of it, opting to just smile and nod as he goes off to finish getting ready.

Derek rolls his eyes and looks at the clock, noting that now he isn’t late so he can’t get shit from Harris. He sits down in one of the metal folding chairs and immediately regrets it—the metal is cold on the exposed skin of his ass. He’s in a marginally better mood now, though, since he’ll be the last performer of the night, rather than the first.

He also has a feeling that it’s going to be a long night, nonetheless.

 

~

 

Derek ops not to watch any of the other guys from the side stage, just like he sometimes does. He sits in the back and does the stretches he needs to in order to get ready for his own performance. It’s always easier when his muscles are warm and loose.

He listens to the speaker through the walls as the voice—Greenberg—introduces Aither—Isaac. The crowd erupts, just like they always do when the god of light himself graces the stage. Derek doesn’t normally watch, but he’s been working with most of these guys for a year or so now, and he’s seen the moves that the curly haired guy has. He knows how to work the crowd almost as well as Danny.

Isaac comes back after his set covered in sweat with a smile on his face and bills tucked everywhere in his awful costume. He doesn’t say much, just grabs the street clothes from his locker and heads to the bathroom. He emerges a few minutes later in jeans and a sweater, with his bag slung over his shoulder. “Thanks again, Derek. I owe you one. Seriously.”

Derek just shrugs. “Don’t mention it.”

Isaac leaves with a parting nod.

The speakers blare to life again. Next up is Dionysus—Boyd—who is probably Derek’s favorite person that works at _Chaos_ with him. He likes Boyd because he’s a sassy motherfucker and doesn’t touch Derek out of the blue. It’s a nice change from the endless invasion of personal space he gets from everyone else.

There’s a small break after Boyd’s performance—the club’s version of an intermission—and Boyd comes back during it, costume filled to the brim with crinkled bills. “How’s the crowd tonight?” Derek asks.

Boyd opens his locker and starts to reach into his pants to retrieve the money stuffed there. “Pretty decent for a Thursday night.” Boyd looks over at him and Derek doesn’t miss the once over. “So you switched Isaac?” Derek tenses, but before he can reply Boyd speaks again. “It was cool of you, dude. But part of me wonders if you’re feeling okay.”

Derek grunts. “Why, because my act of seeming kindness is uncharacteristic of my apparent jackassery?”

Boyd lets out a quiet laugh. “That and you’re lip’s busted up pretty nice. You get into a fight last night or something?”

Derek tenses again. “Yeah. Something like that.”

 

_“You told me forty.” The man says testily._

_Derek sighs heavily, wiping at the saliva and other fluids still on his chin. “No. I told you fifty.”_

_“You fucker, I know you said forty. You’re just trying to rip me off now, aren’t you? Just like a fucking cockslut.” The words are slightly slurred and Derek barely resists the urge to roll his eyes at the other man’s obvious alcohol induced forgetfulness._

_Derek’s in the back alley behind_ Chaos _, where not even the workers generally go, because it’s the known spot where people tend to trick. Derek’s been kneeling on the dirty ground for twenty-three minutes with this fucker’s cock jammed down his throat at full force. It could be worse though, since the man isn’t very well-endowed and the alcohol made him less hard than Derek’s sure he’d normally be._

_Normally, Derek makes it a habit to not take drunk men as Johns, but this guy seemed harmless enough earlier when he asked for a private dance and only stuttered out the question of if Derek was up for a little cash on the side after Derek had already worked him into a fit underneath him. Derek had asked for a name, like he always does—not the John’s name, but the name of the person that told him what Derek would and would not be willing to do for a little extra cash. Derek knows his regulars, lets them refer people to him, but he always tells them to do it sparingly, since he’s well aware of just how illegal it is._

_This guy had given him the name of one of his best regulars, so Derek had ignored the fact that he was well on his way to being plastered and had said his usual “twenty for a rub-and-tug, fifty for a blow” and the guy had just nodded and followed Derek out the back._

_Derek’s regretting that decision right about now, with the guy—who Derek had to admit had enough bulk to be a little worrisome—looming above him, with his hands still in Derek’s hair. He can see a vein starting to pop out on the man’s forehead from his apparent anger. Derek’s about to open his mouth to rebut, but the man moves his hands and one of them is curling into a fist and slamming into the side of his face._

_The ache in his jaw is immediate and he feels like his lip is bleeding. He gets to his feet in one fluid motion—it’s a move he does during his dances all the time—until he’s put a good foot of distance between them. He licks at his bottom lip and hisses at the cut he finds there. When Derek speaks again, the words are low and barely controlled. “I told you fifty, and you’re going to give me fifty, or I’m going to go back in there and say you attacked me, that you saw me dancing and cornered me out here while I was on a smoke break. It wouldn’t be the first scumbag like you I’ve had put away for being a cheap skate. Now pay the fuck up, or you’ll lose more than just fifty fucking dollars.” Derek uses the extra couple inches of height he has and his extra muscle mass to back the man up against the wall. He smiles when the man starts fumbling with his wallet._

_In the end, the man gives him sixty, so it sort of makes up for the split lip._

“You should be more careful,” Boyd says, breaking Derek of his thoughts. “Don’t want to ruin your money maker.”

Derek snorts. “People don’t exactly come here to look at my face, so I think I’m okay.”

Boyd just shakes his head at him before the loud speakers are introducing Danny.

With a persona like Eros, Derek thinks, it’s no wonder that Danny is by far the fan favorite here. It doesn’t bother the rest of the guys, at least not Derek, but he’s sure that Boyd and Isaac don’t really care either. Danny is pretty much the poster boy for _Chaos_. He’s the one in all the advertisements, and he makes bank every single time he dances. Derek was a little intimidated by the sheer amount of skill the other man possessed when he first started working there, but then Danny had offered to train him and show him some of his favorite moves.

Danny had been the very first friend that Derek had made at the club, maybe even the first friend he’d made in years, if he really thought about it, and Derek had no complaints about just how popular Danny was.

The club always switched up the lineup, and the crowd never knew who would perform when until the show started, so if people just showed up for Danny originally, they might get to see him right away, or they might have to wait through a couple of other performances. It was a great idea on the club’s part, because the other guys—Boyd, Isaac, Derek—ended up getting more tips with the system like that, building on the excitement of the crowd over seeing their star, and using that to their advantage to get a little bit more exposure.

It’s been a solid ten months since the four of them all started working together, Isaac being the last to join them, and _Chaos_ has never been more popular than it is now. Although Danny has the largest fanbase, the rest of the guys are well on their way to having some of their own dedicated fans, or at least people that come back to watch—just for them.

Derek hears the song change and knows that Danny is probably about halfway through his performance now, so he gets up to stretch one more time. It isn’t long before he leaves the back for the first time all night, heading to the side stage to get ready for his own introduction.

 

~

 

“Scott, you are aware that it’s weird for you to take almost your entire group of friends to go see your stripper boyfriend strip, right?” Stiles hears a snort from his left and looks over at Allison, who’s got her arms wrapped around Lydia’s waist and her head resting on the redhead’s shoulder.

Allison looks from Scott to Stiles with her dimples flashing. “Finally! I was wondering if I was th’ only one thinking that.” She giggles a little into her girlfriend’s shoulder and Stiles knows that Allison must’ve been pre-gaming pretty hard to be this giggly so early into the night.

Scott huffs and Stiles looks back to his best friend. “He’s not my boyfriend,” the man mumbles and Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes. “We’re just friends!”

“Friends that fuck and hang out almost every day,” Stiles says derisively. “It’s okay to admit you like the guy, you know, man.”

Scott gives Stiles a dark look. “That isn’t it and you know it, asshole.” Stiles shrugs, but he knows enough to let it go and get up to go get them all another round of drinks.

The club is dark, lit only by strategically placed neon bulbs that guide the way from the bar to the stage, so Stiles makes it to the busy space with minimal tripping. He orders the drinks and is awkwardly carrying them back to his friends’ table when the lights on the stage suddenly flare to life. He hastily makes it back and sets the drinks down before he sits. The crowd is starting to cheer and Stiles notes that, surprisingly, the turnout is a lot more mixed than he would normally expect from a male strip club—sorry, _exotic male dance club_ —but there are a lot of guys in the audience, just like him and Scott.

The lights start to dim once more and Stiles notices that it isn’t just the stage lights lowering, but the house lights too. A voice sounds from the speakers as some sort of booming music starts to play.

**“Welcome to Chaos, ladies and gentlemen, where you’ll see heaven dancing next to hell. The gods are with you tonight as you feast your eyes on Aither. By air he falls and by light he flies…”**

The voice disappears and new music starts up. Scott is sitting next to him with a surprised look on his face, so Stiles leans over and whisper-shouts, “Dude, what’s wrong?”

Scott looks over at him. “Isaac said he was supposed to go last, but he’s up right now. He must’ve gotten one of the other guys to switch with him so he could hang with us for a little bit. He wasn’t sure—”

Scott’s cut off by the crowd suddenly increasing in decimals and Stiles looks to the stage just like everyone else, waiting for something. He doesn’t wait long before a figure steps out onto the stage. Stiles kind of wants to laugh at the ridiculous outfit the man is wearing, but he’s also kind of embarrassed for him because of how atrocious it looks. It’s an aqua and gold jumpsuit that only covers half of his body. There’s some sort of strap around his hip that keeps him decent enough, but it’s obvious through the—spandex?—that he isn’t all that worried about his modesty.

The music picks up and the guy on the stage—Isaac, apparently—starts to move. There are no poles at _Chaos_ , which Stiles is glad for, since it has a reputation for having the best male exotic dancers in the state. He thinks that title would be wasted if there were poles on the stage. Isaac’s got a nice rhythm going on, and Stiles can tell by the crowd that the audience seems to like him. The song changes into something a little more energetic and the lights on the stage turn into a soft glow, rather than a bunch of harsh colors, and they highlight the angles of Isaac’s face, the cut of his hipbones and the curve of his ass. He’s doing more intricate moves now, moving his hips and his arms, but most of the intricacy is in the movements of his feet. Stiles wonders faintly if he picked up that particular skill from his sessions with Scott, but then the song changes one more time and the lights dim until there’s just one spotlight on Isaac and he’s walking down the stairs and into the crowd.

Isaac is swarmed almost immediately, still dancing, even with the hands shoving money into whatever nook and cranny of his costume they can reach. Isaac never stops moving, and Stiles admits to himself that Scott’s done good—Isaac is very aesthetically pleasing. The audience eventually has their fill of touching him and he goes back up to the stage to finish out his dance with a flourish.

The lights go out at the same time the music stops and the crowd hoots and claps until the house lights come back on for a small reprieve. Isaac is—unsurprisingly—gone from the stage and nowhere to be seen.

Stiles sits back and picks up his forgotten drink. He takes a long sip before he turns to Scott. “Wow dude. You struck fucking _gold_.”

Lydia and Allison laugh. “Well,” Lydia says pursing her lips, “he is quite a looker, isn’t he?” She nudges Allison at the pout that erupts on her face at Lydia’s words. “The real question of the night is” she leans in closer, across Allison so she can talk closer to Scott “is he good in bed?”

Stiles lets out a laugh at the look of absolute horror on Scott’s face. “Yeah,” Allison pipes, once again wrapping her arms around Lydia’s waist so she can pull her closer. “I bet he fucks like a machine.” She does something with her throat that Stiles has long since been calling her ‘purr’ before Lydia bursts out into laughter and turns her face until the two women are kissing.

Stiles rolls his eyes at them before he turns back to Scott. He leans in conspiratorially, “I bet he does fuck like a machine, though.” At the way Scott’s ears are turning noticeably red, even under the somewhat dim lights, Stiles can tell they’ve hit the nail on the head and he snickers into his drink.

It’s a short while later, a blond woman with a ‘staff’ shirt on has swept up all of Isaac’s tips from the stage and the floor—barely enough time for Lydia to go and get them all shots—before the lights are starting to dim once again and the same voice from before is booming out:

**“Keep feasting your eyes on the skies. Dionysus will cure your thirst. You’ll drink him down and he’ll fill you with the secret rapture of all that heaven offers.”**

Stiles sighs a little at the booming introductions, already over it, but the crowd is eating it all up. The lights go off once again and when they flare to life, a dark-skinned man is clad in only a very vivid violet thong, but he has a couple props on the stage. Stiles notices the chair first, and then the deliciously sculpted body of the dancer. The music is something fast and loud and a little dizzying. The lights are a mess of colors, shifting one into the next, syncopated to the beat of the song.

The man uses the chair to do what looks to Stiles like an air hump, but the women at the front of the audience are screaming their approval. The song changes into something much the same as before and the man moves out into the audience, getting into the space of the women and some of the men closest to the stage. Stiles and his friends are a little further back, about halfway to the bar, so the dancer is quite a bit away from them, but it does nothing to derail the view Stiles gets of the dancer’s ass as he drops to the ground in a move that actually manages to turn Stiles on a little bit as he watches the muscles under the man’s dark skin move and flex.

Money is being thrown at the man from every direction, but he never stops his movements, letting people touch him to their hearts content. It’s over after another song and Stiles kind of already misses the attractive physique, even as the lights flare back up and the voice is announcing:

 **“Now sink into the empty space between heaven and hell that bears the name of Chaos”** before he’s turning back to his friends.

“Scott. I have to admit, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

Scott looks over at him and draws his eyebrows together. “How bad did you think half naked men sexy dancing would be, Stiles?”

Scott’s got his judgey voice on and Stiles just won’t stand for that. He opens his mouth to speak when suddenly Scott’s eyes move to look at something over Stiles’ shoulder and a huge grin breaks out across his face. “Isaac!” Scott shouts, shooting a hand up to wave the man over. Stiles looks over his shoulder to see a sheepish looking Isaac walking toward them with his head down. He’s wearing jeans and a dark cardigan and for some reason that surprises Stiles.

“Hey, Scott,” the man says as he arrives at their table. Scott, who pulled an extra chair over at the beginning of the night, motions to the chair next to him to sit. Isaac does and smiles at Scott. Isaac looks over at the rest of them and smiles. “Hi. You’re Stiles, right?” he nods at him and Stiles nods back, “and Lydia?—and Allison, right?” He motions to each of them and the girls all but preen under the attention, even though Stiles is sure Scott just told Isaac to remember that Lydia is the redhead and Allison is the brunette. “So what did you guys think of the show?”

“You were amazing!” Unsurprisingly, it’s Allison singing the praises and Stiles laughs at how drunk she is right now. “You dance so good. Doesn’t he dance good, baby?” Allison is all but wrapped around Lydia, pressing her face into the redhead’s neck.

Lydia’s just smiling goofily and patting her girlfriend’s back. “He does.” She looks at Isaac, “you’re very talented.”

Isaac smiles and Stiles suddenly sees why he was cast as the god of light, because his smile is fucking brilliant. “Thanks.”

“So,” Scott cuts in before Stiles can add his two cents in, “I thought you said you were going last? Did Danny switch with you?”

Isaac shakes his head. “Actually, no. Derek did.”

Scott’s mouth falls open. “Derek? Really? But—I thought you said that he’d be a no-go. Isn’t he usually a grumpy bastard?”

Stiles watches Isaac shrug. “Normally, yeah, but I’m not about to complain. Hey, who wants a drink? It’s on me?”

Everyone makes sounds of agreement and Isaac leaves for the bar, taking Scott with him to help carry the drinks back. Stiles chats with Lydia and Allison while they’re gone and happily grabs up the offered drink when they get back.

Isaac pulls out his cell phone. “The second half is starting.” He grins up at them. “You guys are in for a treat. Danny is amazing. He’ll blow your fucking socks off.”

Stiles just lifts an eyebrow at the promise. The house lights go dim moments later.

**“Hell has never looked so good. Love is his trade and desire is his coin. Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Eros!”**

Stiles winces at the volume of the room as screams and cheers and hollers sound. Isaac is even cheering and clapping along with the crowd and Stiles has to respect the sportsmanship.

The music starts an instant later, the lights flashing in a series of reds and yellows and whites that make the stage seem like it is on fire for a moment, and then the dancer walks out. He’s all darkly tanned skin, shimmering under the stage lights. He’s wearing something that barely can be called a costume, just a white piece of material that does nothing to hide any part of his body, and matching white wings. The wings are actually quite beautiful, and that surprises Stiles, making him unable to take his eyes away from the man on the stage.

And then the man starts to move and Stiles is hypnotized. His movements are something that Stiles can only describe as pure passion and lust. He moves like he knows just what every thrust of his hips will do to every single person in the club. He moves like he would like nothing better to do than just let anyone who pleases come up onto the stage and have their way with him.

And his eyes. Stiles has never seen a pair of bedroom eyes like this man’s. They are sinful, especially paired with the flashes of devilish dimpled grins he throws at the crowd. Stiles doesn’t even notice when the song changes, or when Danny starts to walk out in to the audience—even though he does see the security guard for the club lurking nearby the dancer. All he knows is that Danny is making rounds through the club, and suddenly he’s dancing right in front of their table, throwing a wink their way before he moves back to the stage, all the while ignoring the countless hands running over every inch of his body that they can, stuffing bills on top of bills into his very tiny costume.

Stiles shamelessly watches his ass when he walks back to the stage, biting his lip as the man continues his erotic dance, the lights making everything feel hotter and faster along with the music. The song finally ends and when the lights dim, Stiles is left more than a little awestruck and desperately wanting an encore.

The crowd starts cheering and screaming and Stiles finds himself joining the hoard of noise, clapping his hands enthusiastically at the performance. It was probably one of the sexiest things he’s ever seen in his life—and he’s watched a lot of porn, so that’s saying something.

When he hears laughter around him, he realizes that he said that last out loud and blushes a little bit, turning back to his friends and pretending to ignore their cackles.

“It’s okay,” Isaac says, his arm draped across Scott’s shoulders, “Danny has that effect on people; I’ve even seen him turn some straight men. You had no chance the moment you walked in here. There’s a reason he’s the money maker.”

Scott scoffs and snuggles in a little closer to Isaac, the alcohol in his system apparently making him less adamant about his claims that there was nothing going on between the two of them. “He’s not the only one. You dance just as well as Danny. You’re sexy, too.”

Isaac just smiles down at Scott and Stiles looks away, rolling his eyes. The same staff member from before is collecting up all of the bills and Lydia drags Stiles to the bar with her so she can get a couple bottles of water. Stiles orders another drink and ignores Lydia telling him he should take it easy and drink some water. He sits down and takes a sip of his drink before the lights are starting to dim again, but slowly this time, until there’s a barely there glow on the stage, and then the loud speaker sounds:

**“He left hell like a wound. He is the one that dwells in the shadows. He is the darkness itself. Erebus.”**

Instead of a booming shout at the end, the voice tapers off into a near whisper that seems to echo in the silent room, sending a shiver down Stiles’ spine. The house is in complete darkness for a few seconds before a lone light shines onto the stage. Stiles can’t see any props but there is a smoke machine that is quickly swirling the air under the light, making the stage look transient, other-worldly, like the audience is glimpsing into a dream. Music starts, and it’s different than the sexy music that Eros had, or the loud, fast beat of Dionysus. This is slower, something somber, something haunting. The music keeps playing and the smoke keeps rising, more lights turning on, until the stage is a wash of slowly dancing air under the still-dim lights.

The music changes, picks up in tempo, but not in volume. The colors of the lights turn darker—reds and blues—and Stiles finally sees a figure emerge on the stage.

A man rises from the ground, from where he was obscured previously by the thick smoke. He rises like a phoenix, like he’s been birthed from the smoke around him, all graceful movements and long lines of pale skin that seem to shimmer from the lights and the smoke. For a moment, he looks like a mirage, like some illusion of the elements, but then he seems to turn solid on the stage, in front of their eyes. He looks like some sort of deity, like something to be worshiped or feared and Stiles doesn’t know which one is pulling at him more. But then the man starts to move.

 Where the dancer before was all passion and sex appeal, this one is pure power. It pours from every move like something visceral, like Stiles could reach out and touch it if he so wanted. He’s almost animalistic in his movements—like there’s something inside of him that’s waiting to claw at the surface, pushed away and back down in to some hidden part within him, with only the smooth movements of his body, with the way he works the stage, as an anchor; like it could somehow quell the raw power inside of him.

The music has grown into a crescendo of noise that sounds more like a wail or a howl and the man’s movements mirror the pain. The song finally changes, or maybe just flows into something else, something darker, angrier, and the movements of the dancer become shorter and harsher, the colors of the lights turning to reds and yellows and oranges and it looks like he is dancing through the flames of hell itself.

Under the lights and through the smoke, he looks like a dark angel. Before, the dancers have all been light or energy—but he is the darkness. He is the carnal, dark desire buried inside of every single person in the room. He dances like rage and apathy, like violence and control—like sex at its most primal, most painful, most sinister—and it takes Stiles’ breath away.

When he finally moves into the crowd, it’s different. The first thing that Stiles notices is that no one touches him, like they are afraid that the darkness will somehow sink into their own skin, or maybe they’ll burn themselves with the fiery looking smoke still dancing behind him. It doesn’t stop the bills from falling at his feet, though, doesn’t stop the looks of awe that Stiles momentarily catches on some of the faces in the front of the crowd when Derek walks by them.

He’s not dancing, per-say, any more, but the way he walks through the crowd feels just as erotic as a good hip gyration. The man walks like an animal—like a predator—like he’s looking for the perfect prey. It sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine, making him shudder.

Suddenly, the man’s eyes are sweeping over their table, looking each of them in the eye before his eyes are locking onto Stiles’. He can’t bring himself to look away from the intense gaze as the man moves closer to their table, even as he feels his heart start to beat a little faster in his chest until the other man finally breaks eye contact. The man makes it to their table, slinking over the entire time, his movements somehow still in sync with the music, even though he’s still not-dancing. He reaches his arm out between Stiles and Lydia, leaning in close—so close that Stiles can see the flecks of gold and green in his eyes—and then he’s suddenly pulling back, hand clasped on Lydia’s forgotten water bottle. Stiles watches as he tips the bottle to pour the cold liquid over his own head, rivulets of water trickling down over the cut of his cheekbones, his jaw, rolling over the dip of his collarbones and sliding their way down his ridiculously toned chest.

Stiles watches the trails of water until they start to run down the man’s exposed thighs and he swallows hard, forcing himself to look up. The man suddenly throws his head back, exposing the long, pale, delicious line of his throat, and then he’s shaking his head, just a little to get rid of the excess water still dripping from his hair, and it’s savage and raw in a way that Stiles has never seen before..

Stiles feels a few droplets of water hit his skin and he wants to be mad—he _really_ does—but the hardening in his pants reminds him of what he’d rather have instead. The man runs both of his hands through the water on his chest, trailing them down in dancing patterns over his slick skin—the movement of his hands just as dangerous, just as predatorily as the way his body’s been moving thus far—before the man turns then, without another glance at any of them and dances his somber-violent dance back to the stage. Stiles can’t help but keep his eyes fixed on the few drops of water that are slowly making their way over the small of his back, following the curve of his ass, and when the man does a final move and the lights start to dim signaling the end, Stiles watches the droplets slide between the man’s ass cheeks and he loses his breath.

Stiles is so fucked, and not in the good way.

 

~

 

Derek is out in the back, smoking a cigarette under the harsh porch light strung up above the exit. He’d left the stage without a backward glance, gone straight to his locker to mop up the sweat and water on his skin with a spare towel he keeps in there, and then promptly pulled a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on atop his costume, grabbing his smokes and a lighter before heading out back.

The air is just cool enough that it sends chills over his still-warm skin, making gooseflesh rise up over his arms, but he doesn’t really mind. Derek drags at his cigarette and lets the smoke warm him from the inside. It had been a good night, overall. The audience had been more enthusiastic than normal. Derek doesn’t normally go last. It only ever happens once every couple of weeks. He thinks the club doesn’t like him as the closer because his performance is always so dark. He doesn’t really care, as long as he gets paid in the end.

He stubs out his cigarette and places the filter in the pocket of his sweatpants before he goes back inside. He heads into the back to collect his things for the night and Erica is there waiting for him. Derek doesn’t smile at her, but it’s a near thing.

She tosses her long blond tresses over her shoulder and holds out her hands to him. “Looks like you got a pretty good haul tonight.” She tells him, holding out the stacks of bills that she collected from the stage and floor after his performance.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t count it.” He takes the bills from her with a roll of his eyes before he heads over to the bench to start counting for himself. It’s a well known fact that Erica is a shameless gossip and she always keeps track of just who made the most money every night. “So, c’mon, who’s the winner?” The guys don’t really take the competition seriously, but sometimes it’s entertaining to see who the favorite of the night’s been.

Erica grins, all teeth, her too-red lips parting. “Don’t be so disinterested, big guy. You beat Danny.”

She says it nonchalantly, but Derek freezes, small stacks of ones and fives already started in front of him. He looks up at her. “What?”

Erica slinks over to him. “You. Beat. Danny.” She leans down and pats his shoulder. “Congrats” and with that she’s walking out of the room.

Derek’s left a little shell-shocked. He’s never beaten Danny before. On a good day, he barely manages to beat Isaac or Boyd, so for him to earn more in tips than the club’s number one attraction leaves him feeling more than a little out of his skin. He shakes it off and goes back to separating his bills. It’s a while later, after he’s arranged all of his money and placed it in his wallet, that he grabs his stuff from his locker and is heading toward the door when it opens and Isaac comes stumbling inside, with the guy Derek saw sitting next to him hot on his heels. Derek freezes as two women and a man—the rest of the group that was sitting with Isaac—come trailing along behind them. Isaac is laughing and has his arm around the darker skinned man and for a moment Derek thinks that none of them have seen him, but then he catches a pair of whiskey-brown eyes looking at him. The man smiles, but Derek is still frozen in front of the lockers and he frowns and looks away.

Isaac turns and notices him then. He smiles and removes his arm from the man’s shoulder. “Hey, D!” Isaac is walking—or, _trying_ to walk, since he’s obviously more than a little drunk—over to Derek. He reaches out like he’s going to touch Derek, but then he seems to think better of it and sits down heavily on the bench in front of him. “Dude, thanks s’ much. F’r switching me. Ser’sly. You’ve no idea how m’ch I owe you. Hey!” he says a little too loudly, making Derek wince as the sound echoes in the small room, “wanna meet m’ friends?”

Derek grunts, not looking at the four people still standing by the door. “Not particularly.”

Isaac makes a face before he sits up and then promptly sways. Derek reaches out without thinking to balance him. Isaac smiles at him again—the big, bright smile that Derek wants to hate but can’t—“Don’ be like that” and then he’s grabbing Derek’s arm and all but dragging him the few feet over to meet his friends. “This is Scott,” Isaac says, motioning to the man he came in with his arm around. Derek hears the way Isaac’s voice softens when he says the other man’s name, but he doesn’t say anything, even as the other man—Scott—smiles at him. “This ‘s All’son,” the brunette, “an’ Lydia,” the redhead. The two girls nod and the taller—Allison—wraps her arms around the shorter one. “And th’s is Stiles,” Isaac says, motioning to the man with the whiskey eyes.

Derek looks at him, really looks at him this time, and it’s like he can’t look away. The man isn’t smiling now, just looking at Derek with an expression he can’t read before the man runs a hand through his brown hair and then looks away. Derek stares at him for a moment longer before Isaac speaking pulls him back.

“So, D, I heard you won.” Isaac is grinning. “That’s s’cool. You should. Y’were awesome. Super sexy.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “How much have you had to drink?”

Isaac flushes a little. “Shut up. Some ‘f us actually enjoy th’ngs in life y’know. Like liquor.” Derek doesn’t say anything, just looks—or glares—at the other man until he looks away. “Sorry, sorry. ‘M so drunk. Scott, will you take m’ home?”

Scott looks over at Isaac and Derek’s glad to see that he at least looks semi-sober. “Yeah. Get your stuff, okay?”

Isaac nods and walks over to his locker, giving Derek an apologetic smile as he passes. “Will you f’rgive me, D?”

Derek sighs and shifts his shoulder into Isaac’s when the man passes. “As long as you still show up for practice tomorrow, I will.”

Someone clears their throat and Derek looks back toward the group by the door to see the man—not Scott, what was his name—Stiles?—staring at Derek again. He’s looking Derek up and down appraisingly and Derek doesn’t like it. “Practice?” the man asks to no one in particular.

Isaac opens his locker and turns back to Stiles. “Oh, yeah. D’rek holds practice three times a week t’ train me and some of th’ newer acts. Like, the ones th’t work here during th’ week.”

A gleam starts in the man’s eye and Derek scowls when he says “Really…?”

Derek slings his bag over his shoulder and crosses his arms. “Yes, really. Do you have a problem with that?” He raises an eyebrow.

The man just puts out both of his hands in a surrender gesture. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “I just didn’t know strippers were that concerned with practicing.”

Derek tenses, feels something all but snap inside of him and he can tell his face is going stony.

He hears Scott groan and say “ _Stiles_ ” but he doesn’t spare him a glance before he is stalking over to stand in front of the man. “What did you just say?”

The man just lets out something that sounds like a snort. “Did all the loud music make you deaf? I said I didn’t know that strippers—”

“I am _not_ a stripper.” Derek bites the words out, his fingers curling into fists.

He hears shuffling behind him before Isaac is standing next to him, trying to defuse the situation. “Stiles. W’ aren’t strippers. We’re exotic danc’rs. There’s a diff’rence.” Isaac doesn’t sound upset, but he does sound a little annoyed.

It’s a sore spot for a lot of the workers here when someone calls the club a strip club or them strippers. It’s something that has always been able to get a rise out of Derek and Isaac knows. Isaac knows just how mad it makes him and when he feels the lighter haired man’s hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it off almost violently. “Don’t touch me.”

“Derek…” Isaac says his name like a warning, but then Stiles is opening his mouth again.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve? Sorry.” he says, all fake innocence that makes Derek’s blood boil.

Isaac touches his shoulder again and Derek rounds on him. “I said don’t fucking touch me.” The words spit from his lips and Isaac flinches back from him. Derek feels bad for about a second before Stiles lets out a laugh. Derek twists back to face him.

“Wow. A stripper—sorry— _exotic dancer_ —that doesn’t like to be touched. Kind of an oxymoron isn’t it? But, hey, I get it. You probably got enough of that when you were younger, didn’t you. I mean, you know what they say about strippers—that they are normally abuse victims of some kind—”

“ _Stiles!_ ”

Derek hears the offended shouts of the man’s friends, and even of Isaac, but all he can see is red. He moves without thinking, tightening his fist and moving it with a speed and force that he didn’t even know he had in him. The hit collides with the other man’s face with a sick sounding thud that echoes dully in the small space. The man stumbles back a step before he falls onto the cement, bringing both hands up to cradle his bleeding nose.

“Fuck you,” is all Derek says before he shifts the bag over his shoulder once more and steps over Stiles to walk through the doorway.

 

~

 

Stiles blinks his eyes open, crashed out on the couch in what he guesses to be Lydia and Allison’s apartment. He can tell by the hardwood floor below that he’s not in his apartment. He hears voices drifting in from the direction of the kitchen and looks toward it, but the curtains are open and the sun streaming in through the window in the room all but blinds him, making a dull throb start behind his left eye.

He closes his eyes again, this time in pain. He hasn’t had a hangover in a long, long time, and he forgot—somehow—just how awful they can be.

He must’ve let out some sound because he hears shuffling and when he opens his eyes again, Lydia is kneeling in front of the couch and holding out a glass of water and a couple pills to him. Her hair is still sleep-mussed, but her eyes are alert, looking at him almost critically.

Stiles takes the offerings without a word, sitting up against an arm of the couch so that he can swallow down the medicine and finish off the cool liquid. Lydia stands in one fluid motion that hints to years of the intense dance training she’s had, before she’s sitting down on the opposite end of the couch.

“You overdid it last night.” Her voice is quiet, but he hears the steel of the words, hears the disapproving disappointment.

Stiles sighs and leans his head to rest on the back of the furniture. He wants to let out a biting comment—tell her that she’s not his mother—but he knows that this particular impulse is the result of an excess of alcohol. So instead he says nothing. He closes his eyes, trying to remember everything that happened last night. He remembers going to the club, remembers watching various performances, meeting Isaac, drinking with the man, especially at the end after the last performer had left the stage.

The last performer—Erebus—Derek. Stiles groans, pulling the blanket in his lap up over his head, as if he could smother himself rather than face the humiliation of remembering how he acted and what he’d said when Isaac had taken them all for a tour and they had ended up in the back room with Derek.

He had insulted him, said horrible things to him and about his profession—all because Stiles had wanted him, and the man wouldn’t even give him the time of day, kept looking at him like he was lower than a worm. He had deserved the punch that Derek had landed on him, that was for sure, even though he’d now have to come up with some story to tell in his class later.

He feels the couch shift and removes the blanket from over his head to see Allison sitting down gingerly beside him. She looks worse than he feels and he takes a cruel pleasure in that for all of two seconds before he’s lifting up the blanket he’s still holding onto in an offering. Allison leans over without a word, wrapping her arms around his waist and cuddling into his side as he settles the blanket over the both of them.

“Stiles, make me feel better.” She grumbles the words into his shoulder and he shifts so that he can hold her a little tighter.

“Can’t,” he grunts. “I’m too emotionally traumatized by my own actions from last night.”

Lydia huffs and Stiles watches her cross her arms over her chest, not looking at either one of them, but then Allison is looking up at him and leaning her head on his shoulder. “You really shouldn’t drink so much. _We_ ,” she leans in a little closer, “really shouldn’t drink so much. Never again. Never, ever again. I can’t believe I have to teach a class in two hours.”

Stiles grimaces. “That sucks so bad, Alli.”

She just nods against his shoulder in response.

“Well,” Lydia says—and Stiles is surprised it took her so long, really—“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but let’s talk about the giant dancing elephant in the room now, shall we?”

Stiles groans again, closing his eyes. “Can we not? I’d really like to not talk about how much I fucked things up last night. Thanks, though.”

“Stiles,” Lydia has her warning voice on, the one that still, even after five years of friendship, Stiles listens to. “Scott’s already on his way.”

“No, Lydia, please. C’mon.” Stiles isn’t below begging—he really, _really_ isn’t. “Alli?” he asks, nudging her a little bit.

“Sorry,” she says, pulling her head from his shoulder. “We should all at least talk about what we’re going to do.”

Stiles opens his mouth to respond when there’s a knock at the door. Lydia bolts up across the small apartment, not even bothering to ask who it is before she opens the door and Scott storms inside. Allison has enough sense to move away from Stiles before Scott’s suddenly jumping on him. “You are such a _dick_!” He yells, twisting one of Stiles arms painfully. “I can’t _believe_ you. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Stiles is now all but lying with his face buried in a cushion, with Scott’s knee digging into his back and the hold on his arm twisting to an unnatural degree. It hurts, but the pain is helping Stiles to sober up better than the pills Lydia gave him.

“ _Fuck_ , dude, that hurts.” The words sound kind of mumbled from being filtered through the cushion, but Scott must hear him anyway, because he lets Stiles’ arm go, even as he digs his knee in a little further.

“It better fucking hurt. You might’ve ruined everything with your big mouth, Stiles. Do you get that?” Scott takes a deep breath before he’s moving off of Stiles to sit on the floor in front of the couch so that he can look him in the eye. “This isn’t just about you and whatever weird hostility you have toward Derek, okay? You get that, right?”

Stiles lets out a heavy sigh, sitting up and rubbing his face, but wincing when he touches what is probably the black eye he got last night. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m fucking sorry. I know I fucked up, alright? What am I supposed to do about it now?”

By the look Lydia and Scott are sharing, Stiles thinks they have an idea, and he’s sure it’s one he’s not going to like.

 

~

 

That’s how Stiles finds himself returning to _Chaos_ that evening, after he’s finished all of his responsibilities for the day, looking for Isaac. He finds him lingering just outside of the room that Stiles knows from last night leads into the locker room for the workers.

“Hey,” he says, trying for a smile. Isaac doesn’t smile back at him, just nods a little wearily and Stiles sighs. “Okay, I know I was out of line last night, and I’m sorry. I said a lot of things I don’t really mean.” Judging by the look the other man is leveling at him, he doesn’t seem to believe him. Isaac just gives him a slight nod and makes like he wants to try to turn away from Stiles, but Stiles sidesteps into his path. “Wait,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “please, just—” he sighs. “I am a colossal dick and I know that an apology doesn’t even begin to make up for how I treated you and especially Derek last night, so this is my committing myself to groveling at your feet for the next millennia or however long it will take you to accept my pitiful excuse for an apology, because Scott’s my best friend, and you matter to Scott, so I don’t want you to hate me, alright?” Stiles bites his lip as he finishes and waits for the other man’s response.

Isaac sighs. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you.”

“I’m not like that all the time. In fact I’m nearly never like that. Really.” He feels the need to add.

Isaac gives him an indecipherable look. “I know. Scott drilled that point into my head quite a bit after we left. I was kind of wasted, so I don’t remember much, but he said something about your dad…?”

The unspoken question is there, but Stiles shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Please. Please don’t.”

Isaac gives him a considering look. “Okay, I’ll tell you what, since Derek cancelled our training session today—probably because of you, by the way—you owe me training. In fact,” he says with a sly grin, “if you seriously want me to accept your apology, you should give me complimentary training sessions and let me into some of your classes, free of charge.”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times. “You, sir, are an evil, evil man.” He sighs, thinking about all of the money he’d be losing, but nevertheless replies, “but okay, if that’s what it takes. Is it cool if we start in a week or so, though? I’ll have to block off a time that works for both of us and I’ll have to see my schedule.”

Isaac laughs a little and claps him on the shoulder, “Sure thing, dude.” Isaac turns to walk away before he stops and looks back to Stiles. “Oh, and by the way, if you’re looking for Derek, he’s out back.” Isaac points to a door on the other side of the club that Stiles hadn’t noticed the night before, and then he’s walking away.

Stiles lets out a puff of air before he reaches into his pocket to text Scott something about his boyfriend being an evil mastermind, but a clever one, before he’s crossing the club and heading out the back door.

He doesn’t see anything at first; its dark out and the only illumination into the courtyard behind the club is the overhead porch light right above the door. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It’s early still—the performances inside haven’t started yet—but it’s late enough that the moon is well on its way to climbing the sky. He’s watching the glow of it through the slight fog of his breath on every exhale and he pulls his worn jacket a little closer. He sighs and starts to make his way down the rickety steps to the makeshift patio—basically just a mess of flat stones set into the ground—when something by one of the walls catches his eyes. Turning, he sees the end of a cigarette light up for a moment before smoke is catching in the stark, too-bright light from the porch light.

He takes a couple steps closer before his eyes adjust enough for him to make out the dark silhouette behind the rising smoke. The man—who Stiles assumes is Derek, since no one else is out here—doesn’t say anything, not even when Stiles steps closer, until there’s less than ten feet of separation between them. Stiles can see that it’s Derek—thinks that he’d be able to spot him anywhere now, even when he’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket like he is at this moment.

Derek’s looking at him; just looking, like Stiles is something akin to a worm, and he thinks that maybe he is. He opens his mouth to speak, but Derek surprises him by saying something first. “If you come any closer, I’ll call security.” He makes a show of half-lifting the hand not holding his cigarette to show his phone in the other. “I thought you would’ve learned your lesson last night, though, since I can see your black eye even in this shitty light.”

Stiles lets out a humorless laugh. “Right. Well, I deserved it, so.” He puts his hands deeply into his coat pockets and shrugs. “And if you want to call security, go ahead. I didn’t—I didn’t come here to attack you. I wanted to apologize.”

Stiles holds his breath for a moment while Derek hits him with his icy gaze. After a while, he cocks his head and asks “Why?”

Stiles opens his mouth. “Well, because I was an ass, and rude, and drunk, and insensitive, and I said a lot of really cruel things—all of which are really not like me. That’s not who I am, and I don’t want people to think that’s who I am. It’s just…yesterday was my dad’s birthday and it always makes me want to drown myself in alcohol—not that that’s an excuse, because it’s not. I was in the wrong and you didn’t deserve to listen to the shit that I said to you.”

Derek takes a drag of his neglected smoke and exhales slowly. “I don’t know you. What does it matter what I think of you?”

Stiles can feel the blush starting to color his cheeks and he simultaneously hopes that it’s dark enough that the shadows will hide it and can’t believe that he is a grown ass man and blushing over the fact that he wants a guy to like him. He bites his lip for a moment before he answers. “It doesn’t. Not—not really.” He takes a deep breath and steels himself. “I told Isaac and I’ll tell the same to you. I know an apology means shit, because you _don’t_ know me and you have no reason to accept anything from me, but I’ll do whatever I have to to make it up to you.”

Derek stubs out the butt of his cigarette on the brick wall behind him and shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. He narrows his eyes at Stiles and he feels himself swallow hard. “Why? Why go through all of this just to change someone’s opinion about you? Isaac—Isaac, I understand. I’d want him to like me too. He’s the kind of person you want in your corner—but why me? I’m just a _stripper_.”

Stiles winces at the venom in the other man’s voice on the last word. “You aren’t, though. You’re actually a really great dancer and—” he falters for a moment before he pulls one of his hands out of his pocket, the card clasped between his fingers as he holds it out to Derek as he takes a step closer. Derek flinches like the card is a weapon and Stiles brings his other hand out to hold them in front of himself in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. Sorry. Backing up.” Stiles takes a step back, but holds the card out still. “Look, this is my card, okay? I just wanted to give it to you.”

Derek eyes his outstretched hand warily before he slowly takes a couple steps and snags the card, immediately stepping back, even as he squints to read over the printed script. “A dance studio?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised as he looks back up at Stiles.

“Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat, putting his hands back into his warm pockets. “Scott—the guy that was with Isaac?—Me, and the two ladies with us, own a studio and we’re looking to expand some of the classes that we offer. That’s actually why we came here last night.” Stiles motions to the club. “Isaac’s been taking some of Scott’s classes for a couple months now and ever since the other people in them found out he’s a—an exotic dancer—they’ve been wanting him to teach a class. But, uh, Isaac’s too busy with school, y’know, working on his degree, which is cool. Anyway, he told all of us to come by last night and see the rest of you so we could get a feel for the way you danced and maybe talk to one of you about teaching the class.

“But, well,” Stiles pauses, “I guess Lydia somehow managed to ask Danny and he said that he couldn’t—something about his contract with the club being binding since he’s the face used in all of the advertisements. And then Scott asked Boyd and he said he doesn’t really have the time, since he only does this as a part-time thing, and that you needed the money more anyway....”

Derek is looking down at the card in his hands. “So, what? I’m the last resort.” The words are biting.

Stiles sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Actually, you were the first.” Derek looks up at him at that. “I mean, we were going to ask you last night and then I fucked everything up with my big mouth, so we asked the others as last resorts—I think my friends were trying to save me the humiliation of groveling at your feet and asking you to come teach a class at our studio—but, alas, to no avail, because here I am, swallowing my pride and asking you to consider our proposal all the same.”

Derek’s looking at him with an odd expression, not really hostile, but still weary. “So, if— _if_ —I teach a class at your studio, what do I get out of it? I mean,” he motions to the card in his hand, “you guys get the draw of having a new class and drawing people in, but what do _I_ get?”

Stiles lets out a loud breath. “Well, you get money. Lots of money. We’re one of the most popular studios in the city and we have a reputation for client loyalty. And we work on a sixty/forty split plus commission. And it’s not even like you have to advertise for your own class because we already have two classes worth of people signed up and we don’t even have an instructor yet.”

Stiles is waiting for Derek to say something—anything—when they hear the loud booming of the loudspeaker from inside say the club’s catchphrase and Derek shakes his head. “I have to go, I’m second tonight.”

He brushes past Stiles and heads toward the stairs. “Derek,” Stiles can’t help but calling. The other man turns back to look at him, “just think about it, okay? Don’t let my mistakes reflect on my friends or our offer to you, alright? If you make a decision, the address is on the card.”

Derek nods once before heading inside of the club.

 

~


	2. Two

It’s late—already almost eight AM the next day—when Derek gets back to his apartment after a long, long night at work, followed by a couple tricks. The first few had just been the normal—hand or blow job—but the last one, he’d asked for a little more. Derek would say that it’s more of a habit now, to let the couple clients he knows really well pay to fuck him, but on days like this, when he’s sore and sweaty and his fingers are stained from cigarette after cigarette, when he can feel the stickiness between his legs from the pleasure the other man’s spent on him, he doesn’t try to lie to himself.

It’s always the same thing. Always the same compulsion that drives him—like having control over who he lets fuck him makes up for all the times that consent got taken away from him, like getting money from it means he’s worth something. He uses his body so it can’t be used against him. That’s why he first got into dancing—if he’s honest with himself, which he _isn’t_ all that often—because dancing made him feel like he had control of his own limbs, telling his limbs how to turn and move and twist until his body could create something new, something _worthy_.

He sits on the foot of his bed, ignoring the twinge in his backside, and pulls out the card from his pocket.

_Little Light Studios_

The script is fancy, but still understated. It’s simple; just the studio name, address, and phone number. He thinks about calling and just flat out saying no, but there’s a part of him, something somewhere deep down, that thinks maybe this is a chance at something new. He thinks once again about the whiskey-eyed man’s offer. To dance, to _really_ dance and have people learn from him. When he trains Isaac and some of the other newer acts that normally work Mondays through Wednesdays, he always feels a sense of pride when they improve and accomplish new things—and he could have that, still, but get paid for his time and effort. It’s compelling, really.

He sets the card down on his dresser before he grabs some clothes and goes to take a shower. He’s still thinking the offer over when he gets back in his room, fully dressed and running a towel through his still-damp hair, to see Cora standing there next to his dresser with the card in her hands, staring at it.

He lets out a heavy sigh and Cora looks up at him a little guiltily. “Sorry, sorry, I know you hate when I come in here, I just was gonna borrow a sweater and then I saw this on your dresser. Are you thinking about taking dance classes or something?”

He just raises an eyebrow at her and throws his towel into his hamper. “Sweaters are in the closet, not the dresser. Which you know.”

Cora bites her lip and sets the card back down. “Right. I didn’t mean to pry. I just.” She lets out a little sigh. “You used to love dancing, and you were so good at it.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “I still am, Cora.”

She shakes her head a little. “I know. That’s not what—I just wondered if maybe you ever wanted to do more than—what you’re doing?”

Derek shrugs and heads over to the closet to pull out a hoodie for Cora—one of his old ones, so it fits her—before handing the sweater to her. “I’m an exotic dancer. What, does it make you ashamed to even say it?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “I like my job, Cora. I’m good at it and it pays my bills. Unlike you and Laura, I don’t want to stay here and live off of Deuc for the rest of my life.”

Cora’s face closes up. “Fuck you, Derek.”

Derek sighs and grabs his cell phone, wallet, and keys from the nightstand by his bed before he heads back to the dresser. Cora is still standing there; staring at the floor with her shoulders slumped so Derek stops in front of her and sets a hand on one of her shoulders. “Look—I’m sorry, okay? That wasn’t fair, I know. Will you forgive me?”

Cora looks up at him before she wraps her arms around him and pulls him into a hug. “Okay. But only because you’re my brother and I love you even when you’re a dick to me.” She pulls away and turns to pick up the card once again before she hands it to Derek. “So. Classes?”

Derek hesitates only for a moment before he takes the card and puts it in his pocket. “Actually… I got asked to teach a couple sessions.”

“What? Derek that’s awesome!” Cora grins at him and Derek feels like it’s contagious when his lips start to twitch up at the corners.

“Well, I don’t know if I’m going to say yes or not.”

Cora opens and closes her mouth for a moment. “Um. What? Why?”

Derek shrugs. “The guy that asked me is kind of an ass. I’m not sure I want to work with someone like that is all.”

Cora barks out a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you! You’re like, king of the assholes. Now you have to work there! It’s like it’s meant to be.”

Cora turns on her heels and walks out of his room. Derek can still hear her laugh even after she gets back to her own room and closes the door.

 

~

 

The dance studio is on the other side of town, but Derek doesn’t mind the long walk; it helps to clear his head, breathing in the too-cold air of the city, feeling the pavement under his feet. He makes it to the street right as a light snow starts to fall. His hands are shoved as far into the lining of his jacket pockets as he can get them when he finally walks up to the studio doors.

The doors are glass, with the same scripted name as the card across them. Derek considers lingering outside to have half a smoke, but the cold is starting to seep into his skin under the leather jacket and the snow is falling harder. He opens the door and walks in, a blast of warm air immediately taking the chill away. He doesn’t bother to wipe his snowy boots on the greeting rug, instead just walks further in. There’s a desk by the far wall and he heads toward it, noting that the woman behind it doesn’t even look up until he’s standing right in front of it. She’s typing away at her computer and only reacts after he clears his throat loudly.

“Sorry! Sorry!” She turns to face him. “Welcome to _Little Light Studios_. We offer a variety of classes, ranging from ballet and jazz to hip-hop and salsa, with everything from ballroom dancing to tap in between! Is there a class that you’re interested in signing up for this afternoon?”

“No,” Derek manages to gruff out and then promptly has to keep from rolling his eyes at the girl’s taken-aback expression. “I’m here about the exotic dancing classes.”

A confused expression flits across her face. “I’m sorry, sir, we are currently not offering a class like that at this time. If you’d like to take one of our brochures, you’ll see what classes we are currently offering—”

Derek sighs and shakes his head. “No—I mean—I’m here about the classes. To talk to someone about them. Look just go tell whoever your boss is that Derek is here. They should be expecting me.”

“Oh,” she says, before her eyes widen and she repeats “Oh!” and then starts clicking away at her computer while simultaneously standing up and putting her Bluetooth to her ear. “You can take a seat over there if you’d like,” she points to a waiting area off to the side of the desk. “I’ll go get someone and they’ll be with you in a moment.”

Derek tries not to scowl too much at the inconvenience of waiting and ignores the way the woman eyes him for a moment after he sits down before she turns away. He looks around the building for the first time since he’s walked in, really seeing it. It’s tastefully decorated, if a little extravagant for just a lobby. There’s artwork along the walls—Derek has to admit that it really is decent stuff—and the chairs are surprisingly comfortable. He’s just thinking about standing up and going outside to take his smoke when he hears the sound of a door closing and mumbled voices. He stands up in one fluid motion, digging his hands back into the pockets of his jacket when he sees the receptionist coming back—along with Stiles and the redhead from the other night.

Stiles stops when he sees Derek, even as the Asian woman and the redhead keep walking toward him, like Stiles isn’t sure how close he should come. Derek doesn’t move or say anything. The receptionist goes back to her desk and the redhead stands in front of him, turning back to gesture Stiles a little closer with a roll of her eyes. “Hello—Derek, right?—I’m Lydia. This is Stiles, obviously.” She nods her head in the other man’s general direction. Derek doesn’t look at him, just keeps looking at Lydia. “Well, let’s go somewhere we can all talk in private, shall we?”

It isn’t a question and the next moment she’s turning on her heels—three inch ones, he notes—and leading him down the same hallway they both emerged from. Stiles trails behind Derek like he’s afraid he’s going to turn and punch him again. But who knows?—Maybe Derek will.

Lydia stops in front of a door that’s got a plaque beside it with _Little Light Offices_ written on it. She opens the door and ushers Derek in. He’s in another little hallway that leads to what can only be each of their designated spaces. Stiles is the first to move once they’re all inside, clearing his throat and saying “Uh, just—we’re just going right in here.” And then he opens a door with another plaque reading _S. Stilinski_ on it. Lydia goes in first, walking behind the desk to sit in the chair. Stiles starts to make a sound, but then Lydia throws him a heated glare and Derek tries not to grin at the sputter the other man emits, so instead he just moves over and takes one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk from Lydia.

Stiles stands awkwardly in the doorway before Derek rolls his eyes and pushes the empty chair toward him. “Sit.” Derek tries not to notice how the other man ducks his head, color high on his cheeks.

“So,” Lydia starts, “I’m sure Stiles told you a little bit about our offer for you to teach a couple classes here?” Derek doesn’t say anything, just nods tightly. “The offer includes a part time teaching position, paid by commission as well as forty percent of the revenue from your classes, plus benefits—including health, vision, dental, and a 401K.” Lydia’s silent for a little bit, like she’s waiting for him to say something and then looks disappointed when he doesn’t, but he’s too busy thinking. Benefits?—Stiles didn’t mention them, didn’t mention that he could get insurance through working here—specifically health insurance. His mind races with the possibilities, quickly weighing the pros and cons of taking the job once again.

 Lydia sighs after a while—a heavy, bone weary sigh that seems to make Stiles flinch a little next to him. “Right, well, thank you for coming down here to let us know that you’ve made your decision, Derek. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry on all of our behalves.”

Derek can feel his eyebrows draw together in confusion. “What are you sorry for?”

Lydia looks at him with her eyes narrowed before they flit to the left, over to where Stiles is sitting, and then back. “I’m afraid _someone_ spoke completely out of line a few days ago. Not only do his actions reflect back onto all of us, but his stupidity cost us a very important opportunity to expand our business.”

Derek sits back against the chair, stuffing his hands back into his jacket pockets and mulling over her words while gathering his thoughts. “Look, I’m not saying I forgive him for the things he said, but he did apologize to me, and punching him kind of settled it anyway. But, I’ll be honest, an apology is more than a lot of people can say in my line of work. I deal with people like him all the time. Did you think a few insults would be enough to turn me away?”

Lydia’s mouth snaps closed and she looks at him pensively. Stiles clears his throat once more and Derek glances at him to see him blinking owlishly, even if it looks a little silly with his still-bruised eye. “Wait. Does that mean—are you accepting the job offer?”

He shrugs and turns away. “I need the money.”

They all sit in silence for another minute and then Lydia’s blowing out a breath. “Well, I have to say this is an unexpected turn of events.” She stands before either Derek or Stiles can respond. “Okay. Good, this is good. Derek. The next little bit will be your training period. You’ll let me know today before you leave what your schedule at the club is like and I’ll find dates and times that we can coordinate for the classes you’ll be teaching.” She claps her hands together. “In the mean time—are you available at all later this weekend?” Derek shakes his head at her and her face falls a little. “What about Monday, say noon-ish?” He thinks about it—he only works weekends and trains some of the other club workers on Friday mornings.

“I can do noon,” is all he says.

“Good. Alright. This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to pick a song and come up with a routine by Monday at noon and then come here.  Now, we all know you can dance and you’re good at your craft, but I want to make sure that you’ll be able to teach entry level people, so I want you to come prepared to break your routine down step-by-step and teach it to one of us. Can you handle that?”

Derek stands up and raises his eyebrow. “Monday at noon,” he nods again. “I’ll be ready.” He reaches a hand out to shake hers and she places her manicured grip in his. They spend an hour going over the contract, negotiating a stage name for him to be placed on the brochure, along with the fact that he’s an affiliate of _Chaos_ , since he doesn’t want to use his real name and can’t use his _Chaos_ persona. Lydia helps him decide on Devin Hill. It’s only when Derek finally leaves that he realizes Stiles didn’t say another word to him the entire time.

 

~

 

Stiles is nothing but a bundle of nerves by the time Derek finally leaves the studio. He doesn’t even walk him out with Lydia, instead just grabs his duffle bag with his extra dance equipment in it and heads to one of the changing rooms. He slips on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before he goes over to _Studio 2_. He plugs in his phone and turns on a playlist, walking immediately to the middle of the empty wooden dance floor.

This is his favorite studio. There’s just something he loves about the slightly softer natural light that filters in from the large windows, rather than the glaring fluorescents. He loves the floor, a little worn, a little scratched, but it gives it more of a lived-in feel. The exposed bricks are his favorite thing though, along with the pillar that’s off-center by the windows. Every studio here is different—it’s something all of them decided on when they went into the business together—and this one is used less often than some of the others because there isn’t a wall of mirrors, just a few stand alone ones placed periodically, but Stiles finds himself dancing in this room whenever he has the spare time and inclination.

The music starts softly, single notes that pull at his body like strings until he’s moving along with the rhythm. He weaves with the melody, stretching his arms and legs, moving them until they fit the mold he wants, until he can bend and arch and swing his limbs like pendulums. The notes pick up and turn into something harder, heavier, and he goes with it, pushing his body to turn faster, reach farther—he points his fingers and his toes, bends his body into shapes, drops to the floor, becomes one with the song so that when it ends, it feels like a piece of him is ending too. The next song starts, and its one he’s heard a million times, created countless routines to, and he goes through the motions of them, pushing himself to give a little extra on every move. He’s just starting to sweat by the time the next song comes on, and he gives himself completely over to the playlist, doing the moves that feel most natural with the melodies.

He’s gasping by the time the final song starts, sweat pouring down his back, soaking the collar of his shirt. He hears the knock on the heavy wooden door leading into the studio before it opens. He doesn’t spare a glance for who’s in the room—probably Lydia—and instead focuses on the last song, on not giving in to the trembling of his thighs, or the ache starting in his toes. He ignores the way his heart is beating a little too hard and just works through the rest of the song.

It ends in a flourish of notes and he jumps and spins until he feels a little dizzy and falls to the floor.

“Stiles!” Lydia admonishes, even as she’s racing over to him and dropping to her knees on the floor beside him.

He’s panting a little, but he manages to lift up a hand. “I’m okay. I’m okay. Just got dizzy.” Lydia sighs at him and then slaps his shoulder.  “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“That was for you being an idiot,” she says, before she’s holding out the bottle of water in her hands for him. “Now drink. I want to make sure you’re really okay before my class starts.”

It’s only then that he notices she’s changed out of her ballroom dancing outfit and into her ballet outfit, wearing a black, long-sleeved leotard, matching leggings under it, and ballet shoes; her hair back in a slick ponytail. “Why are you ready so early? I thought your class didn’t start until five?”

He twists off the cap and tips the bottle back, taking a long sip. When he finishes, she’s looking at him in that way he really hates—kind of sad and a little irritated. “Stiles it’s four-thirty. You’ve been dancing for over two hours.”

He immediately groans and falls onto his back. “Fuck. Why didn’t you stop me? You know I have my intermediate class tonight. I’m going to be so dead on my feet.” He throws his arm over his face and hears Lydia sigh again before she’s patting him on the stomach. “Don’t patronize me right now, Lydia.” He moves his arm to look at her. She’s opening her mouth, but he cuts her off. “And you really don’t have to worry about telling me—again—how much I could’ve potentially fucked things up royally for us, okay? I got the memo. We’re lucky Hale agreed at all; something we would’t’ve had to worry about if I hadn’t opened my big fucking mouth. I got it. Thanks for playing.”

Lydia quirks her mouth at him a little bit before she leans down and kisses his cheek. “I was actually going to apologize for assuming the worst.” Stiles sits up and blinks at her. “And thank you for saying whatever you said to get him to agree.”

He shakes his head a little. “What? Are you serious right now, or are you fucking with me again?”

Lydia smiles at him—not an altogether friendly smile, “Oh, I’m serious. In fact, I’m so serious and impressed with your _fantastic_ turnaround with Derek that I talked to Scott and Allison and we all agreed that you should be the one to train him and work with him.”

Stiles bolts up, ignoring the ache in his legs. “Are you fucking kidding me? How many times do I have to grovel at your feet before you’ll believe that I’m sorry?” He runs his hands through his sweaty hair and turns away from her. “Are you trying to put me in a situation like this so you can convince Scott and Allison that you guys should get rid of me?—Because you can’t fucking do this. I own part of this business too and I—”

“Stiles! Calm the fuck down.” Stiles takes a deep breath and turns back to face her. She’s standing now, with her hands on her hips. “I thought you’d be happy about it, since you have a massive, uncontrollable boner for the guy.”

“Lydia…”

She puts her hands up in a surrender gesture. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Allison has a class then, Scott’s got plans with Isaac, and I’ll be out of town. I know it’s your day off, but suck it up and put whatever paranoid insecurities you have away for a second to do your damn job. And if that job now includes working with Derek Hale—or _Devin Hill_ —you’ll do it, because you do not want to fuck this up for us again, Stiles. Are we clear?”

Stiles sighs, feels his entire body just sag under the weight of her glare. Deep down, he knows she’s right, knows she’s giving him the chance to make it up to his friends for screwing up. “Yeah, we’re clear. Now go teach pretentious teenage brats how to do a fouette turn.”

 

~

 

Stiles spends the next day icing the discolored bruises on his nose and around his eye. It’s his first day off all week and he desperately wants the sick yellowing marks on his skin to be gone by tomorrow’s training with Derek. He’s been up since six in the morning, not having been able to sleep, so he alternates between icing his face and doing some busy work around his apartment.

His roommate is the least courteous person Stiles has ever met, and he refuses to pick up after himself. Stiles doesn’t know how many times he’s told the guy he’s not his fucking mother, but he just gives Stiles a look like he’s a worm beneath his feet and leaves another dirty dish on the coffee table.

Fucking Jackson.

Of course, Stiles can’t just let his living space be trashed. He refuses to live in filth, so he always ends up picking up after the ass. He’s one extra-large black garbage bag into making the apartment spotless once again, when Jackson decides to wake up. It’s a little passed noon and Stiles is busy being grossed out by a plate he found under the couch that he must’ve missed last week, because it’d started growing mold.

Fucking _Jackson_.

The other man doesn’t say anything, just saunters out of his room in only a pair of gym shorts and heads for the coffee maker. It’s a ridiculously expensive and extravagant machine that Jackson just _had_ to have, but he doesn’t even know how to use all of the features half the time. Stiles hears him open and close a few cupboards before suddenly he’s storming into the living room. Stiles is perched on the arm of the couch, digging around under the cushions for anything that might’ve fallen down the cracks during the week, when suddenly Jackson pushes him over, causing his arm to get caught and move at an awkward angle as he falls onto the cushion-less couch.  “Ow, what the actual _fuck_ , Jackson!” He rolls off of the couch and settles himself on the floor, cradling his hurt wrist to his chest.

“We’re out of coffee.”

Stiles tightens his mouth for a moment before he speaks. “So go out and buy some more, asshole. And it’s not _we_ , it’s _you._ You know I don’t drink that stuff.”

Jackson just snorts. “I don’t do grocery shopping, Stilinski. That’s what I pay you for.”

Stiles works himself to his feet, careful not to put any pressure on his wrist. “No. You don’t fucking pay me. You give me money so that we split the cost of food that both of us eat, since you’re too much of a monumental douchebag to go to a grocery store yourself. But I don’t drink your fucking coffee, so buy it yourself for once.”

Jackson’s standing in front of him now, flaring his nose in obvious rage. This guy really needs to do some yoga or something for his anger problem. “Stilinski, I need my coffee. I have a date later and I don’t want to have a caffeine headache.”

“Well, that sounds a lot like your own problem, doesn’t it? How many times have I told you not to drink that stuff because you’ll get addicted? Hmm? But _nooo_ , why would anyone listen to me? I obviously don’t have any fucking _clue_ what I’m talking about—”

Jackson rubs his temples. “Please for the love of god, shut the fuck up. It’s too early for me to be tortured by listening to you speak.”

Stiles uses his good hand to flick Jackson off. “Up yours, buddy.”

Jackson suddenly gets in to Stiles’ space, crowding him back against a wall. He leans in and places his arms against the wall on either side of Stiles, boxing him in. Like this, his face is close. “Yeah, I bet you’d love to be up mine, bet you’d jump at the chance to fuck me. Hmm?”

Stiles snorts, moving his arms up to push against Jackson’s bare shoulders, “You’re not my type, asshole,” he says, but he forgets about his still-sore wrist and hisses at the flare of pain.

“Oh. Did the little baby get hurt?” Jackson reaches down and circles Stiles’ tender wrist. “What would you do if I did this?” he’s asking, even as he tightens his hold. Stiles bites his lip to keep from making a sound.

“Jackson, stop. C’mon man, let me go.” Stiles tries to pull his wrist away, but Jackson’s grip is too tight. “That fucking hurts.” Jackson smirks at Stiles and it’s the last straw. Stiles lifts his knee and drives it straight up and between Jackson’s legs. He lets out something that sounds like a cross between and shriek and a whimper before he’s letting go of Stiles and falling onto the floor. “How ‘bout that, fucker.”

“Fuck,” Jackson wheezes, drawing his knees closer to his chest, glaring up at Stiles. “What part of I have a date later did you miss?”

Stiles hums, “Sorry you won’t be able to fuck your flavor of the month tonight, but I think you sprained my wrist, so it’s the least I can do.”

“Goddammit Stiles. I’m gonna kill you.” He says, but he makes no move to get up from the fetal position he’s currently in on the floor.

“Pretty sure you won’t, dude.” He says before he goes to the coffee table to grab his keys and his wallet that he placed there.

“For the record,” Jackson mumbles, not even bothering to look up at Stiles. “I’m everyone’s type.”

Stiles presses his lips together before he pops them. “Nope. Pretty sure you’re not. But if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go to the hospital and get my wrist looked at.” He walks over to the closet by the front door and opens it, slipping on his shoes and reaching for his jacket with his good hand. “Oh,” he says and he’s gingerly slipping on his coat, “and by the way, I won’t be able to go grocery shopping today, and I have to work tomorrow. So it looks like you’ll be buying your own coffee, fuckface.”

With that, he leaves the apartment, a grin on his face, even as he tries to ignore the discomfort of his wrist. He hails a cab, not wanting to deal with waiting for a bus, and has the cabbie take him to the hospital. He’s pretty sure his wrist is just sprained—he’s had enough sprains to know what they feel like—but he’d hate to self-diagnose and it to turn out that he’d actually broken his wrist. So, he goes to the ER and waits and ungodly amount of time for his name to be called. He’s led into a small space with a bed in it, closed off by a curtain from the slight chaos around him. He overheard something about a six car pileup on the highway leading out of town.

After a little bit more waiting, a nurse pulls back the curtain and steps in, glancing up from the chart in front of her to look at him. “Hello—Stiles, is it?—I’m Laura. What can you tell me about your injury? I saw on your chart you broke your right wrist a few years ago; is it the same wrist or the other one?”

The woman’s voice is soothing, her light eyes calming him down just a little bit. She’s motherly in a way most people try to be and few people actually are. He lets out a breath. “No, it’s my left. It’s just hurting a little. Sensitive to touch. It started swelling on my way over. I think it’s just a sprain, though”

She smiles at him and Stiles suddenly realizes that she’s young—younger than most of the middle-aged nurses that Stiles tends to see here. “Okay. Well, I think I’ll order you an x-ray just to see if there is any other damage.”

Stiles nods and then a doctor comes in to talk to him before he’s being taken to an x-ray room, put in a hospital gown, and having pictures taken. It’s over before he knows it and then he’s back in the room, dressed, and waiting once again. The doctor tells him that it’s just a sprain and that he should keep it iced, elevated, and wrapped for the next few days before she leaves. The nurse from before comes in after the doctor leaves and Stiles belatedly asks if he’ll still be okay to dance with his sprain.

“I would take it easy, if I were you. We don’t want you falling and catching yourself with your bad wrist. She looks at him for a moment before she continues. “But something tells me you’re going to do it anyway. So how about this, I’ll get you a splint and you can wear it every moment while you’re dancing.”

Stiles beams at her, not wanting to tell her just how much he can’t really afford to cancel his classes this week because of an injury.

_Fucking Jackson_.

She wraps his wrist for him, “So, you mentioned you teach dance classes? Where do you teach?”

“Oh, I’m part owner of _Little Light Studios_ , over on Second.”

She’s placing the splint on his wrist and pauses. “The one on the corner? No way! Some of my co-workers take classes there! They can’t say enough good things about you guys.”

 “Yeah? What are their names?”

“Julia Baccari and Kate Argent.”

She’s done wrapping his wrist now and sits down in the chair opposite the bed he’s sitting on. Stiles grins a little at her. “I know them both. Kate’s niece is actually another one of the owners, and one of my best friends. There’s four of us, altogether. Julia’s in my intermediate contemporary dance class. Hard worker; always pushes herself.”

The nurse—Laura—laughs, “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

They sit in silence for another moment before Stiles lifts himself up enough to pull his wallet from his back pocket—if a little awkwardly with the splint. He pulls out a card and hands it to her. “Here, take my card.”

She takes it from him, but her features fall just a little. “Thanks, but…I’m not much of a dancer. My brother, though, he used to dance. He was so good at it, until…” she clears her throat and then looks back up at him, her eyes a little watery. “Maybe I’ll give it to him. He’s got so much potential to be great, you know, but he just settles for sub-par dance jobs. It’s a shame.”

Stiles smiles back at her, a soft stretch of his lips. “Well, if he comes in, or if you change your mind, just give the receptionist that card and tell her Stiles said you’ll get your first two classes free.”

Laura smiles at him, standing up and placing the card in the pocket of her scrubs. “Thank you, Stiles. That’s very kind of you. Now, don’t forget, wear the splint, or else.” She mock-glares at him before she tells him to take care of himself and leaves.

 

~

 

_His parents die in the summer._

_The only thing Derek remembers about the funeral is Laura sitting with Cora, listening as his younger sister cried and cried, until she finally fell asleep. He remembers rain and black, and Uncle Peter’s hand on his shoulder the entire time._

_He, Laura, and Cora have to go live with Uncle Peter in the city. Derek doesn’t want to—all of his friends are here, in the town he’d lived in forever, and he doesn’t want to have to go to a new school where he doesn’t know anyone. Uncle Peter tells him it will be okay, that he doesn’t need friends, because he’s got him. Derek smiles and hugs the older man._

_Derek never questions why the two girls get a room of their own and he still has to share the bed in Uncle Peter’s room, even though he’s  well past the age of sleeping with an adult. They all know that Uncle Peter doesn’t have a lot of money, and four people in a small two-bedroom apartment calls for close living quarters. All of them are thankful that their uncle is there for them; he’s all they have left._

_Laura’s older, already a teenager, and she understands the loss better than Derek does. It doesn’t hit him until his birthday, until his mom isn’t there to make his favorite flavor cake and sing him happy birthday with her beautiful voice. Laura makes a cake, but it’s lopsided and tastes bad and the wax from the candles burn his fingertips._

_Derek cries for the first time since the funeral. Uncle Peter takes him into their room and holds him through the worst of it, until finally the older man says that he knows something that will make Derek feel better._

_It’s not the first time his uncle does it, but this time it is so much worse. Derek tells him that he doesn’t want to; that he’s tired, that he just wants to sleep, but the older man just strips off Derek’s clothes and pushes him against the bed. Uncle Peter tells him that he’ll take care of him, that he’ll make him forget about his parents, that he loves him. Derek tries to push him off, but Uncle Peter holds him tighter, puts a hand over his mouth when Derek starts to get hysterical, when the pain makes him start to cry again._

_Uncle Peter kisses the back of his neck, “Shh. Be a good boy for me, baby. You’re such a good boy. Don’t want to wake your sisters up, do you? They wouldn’t understand, Derek. I love you, I love you so much my baby boy.” He croons the words into Derek’s ear and the boy closes his eyes, tries to block them out. He doesn’t want this; he never wanted this. He starts to sob once more._

_Derek cries and cries, until he can’t breathe, until his uncle is sated and rolls off of him, until the pain finally starts to fade and he falls into a shallow, listless sleep._

 

Derek wakes up gasping for air, hands fisted so tightly in his sheets that they’ve torn a little from the impact. He’s on his stomach, face pressed against the mattress and he _can’t breathe_. He struggles for a moment, the room too dark, too silent, the tangled sheets around his legs feeling like chains, holding him down, making him feel helpless, like he can’t get away, like he’s back in his nightmare, still that eleven year old boy he used to be.

He rolls out of his bed and hits the wood floor, hard. It hurts his knees, but the pain brings him back to himself a little bit. He’s not there anymore. Peter can’t hurt him. _Not again; never again._ It doesn’t stop the cold sweat from breaking out over his skin, doesn’t stop the chill in the air from seeping into his bones until he feels like he can’t move, until his body _aches_.

He focuses on breathing—slow, in and out—until the tightness in his chest loosens. He grabs the edge of his bed and unsteadily rises to his knees. His bedroom door opens with a bang against the wall as he leaves the room, sounding loud in the small three-bedroom apartment. He doesn’t even bother closing the bathroom door, just rushes in, turns the light on, and goes to the sink, turning the water on cold, waiting for a moment until the water feels like ice against his fingers, before he splashes some on his face, wipes some over the back of his neck. The water stings his skin, makes him shiver, but its better, allows him to think clearer.

A sound from the doorway startles him and he flinches back, sending water droplets flying. He looks over, eyes still a little bleary from the nightmare, to see Laura leaning against the doorjamb. Her hair is in a messy bun and she’s pulling on the sleeve of her over-sized sweatshirt—no, Deucalion’s sweatshirt by the looks of it—staring at him with worried eyes. “Der? …Are you okay?”

Her voice is raspy, sleep-rough, and there’s a part of him that’s sorry he woke her up considering she just got off of a twelve-hour shift and has to do it all over again in just a few hours. He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. His mouth feels like sandpaper, so he bends back down to the sink and cups some water in his hands, bringing it up to his lips to drink before he splashes the rest over his face. He clears his throat. “Go back to sleep, Laura. I’m sure Deucalion misses you.”

Derek sees Laura reach out toward him from the corner of his eye and he moves away from her touch. She makes a face like she wants to say something, but isn’t sure if she should. He sees the moment she decides to just go ahead and ask. “Derek… I—I heard you. You were making sounds like you were having a nightmare. Were you having another nightmare?” She moves closer to him and Derek wants nothing more than to hate her in that moment. “I thought you said they’d stopped? When did they start again? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He feels the anger rise up in him, like an old, familiar friend and he turns to her, the rage burning in the pit of his stomach. “Tell you? Why the fuck would I _tell_ you?—So you can tell me that I’m a fuck up, send me to another doctor, put me on more pills?” He’s shaking his head, “No. Fuck no. Don’t stand there and pretend like you actually give a shit about me, Laura, because we both know the fucking truth. Now get out of my face.” He says the last as he pushes her out of the way, pushes past her, needing to get out of the too-small bathroom.

She makes a sound when she’s shoved back against the door—a sharp hitch in her breath that she tries to hide. Derek ignores it—tries so hard to ignore it and the twist of guilt he feels, because he knows from experience that when she starts to cry, it’s not from physical pain, but from him hurting her—again.

But it doesn’t make him turn around, doesn’t make him look at her. Instead, he goes back to his bedroom, closing the door and locking it, heading straight to his dresser, picking up his cigarettes with shaky fingers, body still buzzing with latent anger. He’s two cigarettes in before he hears Laura stop crying.

 

~

 

Derek doesn’t even bother going back to sleep, already resigning himself to a day of hell with a dash of exhaustion on top, just to really kick him in the balls. He takes a shower, dresses in his most comfortable clothes, tries to eat a decent breakfast, but instead starts to feel sick and just picks at a piece of toast instead.

The apartment is silent, Laura and Deucalion already at their respective jobs by the time Cora shows her face. It’s a little after eleven and Derek knows she’s got to leave soon to head to one of her classes—he can never remember which one. She sits down next to him at the table and gives him a long look, until he’s forced to look back at her. He raises his eyebrows at her. “What?”

Cora’s lips tighten before she’s sighing loudly and reaching over to pick at the strawberries still on a plate in front of him. “You’re a dick. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love you. But you are the biggest asshole I’ve ever had the displeasure of calling my favorite person.” Derek crosses his arms and glares at her a little. She just shrugs good-naturedly and grins at him for a moment before it falters. “You’re okay, though, right?”

Derek lets out a breath and drops his arms, slowly reaching out to cover her hand with his. He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand, not looking at her. “I’m…not sure.”

“Nightmares?” She asks.

Derek doesn’t react for a moment, but he owes it to her—only her—to tell the truth. “Yeah.” It’s barely a whisper.

Cora turns her hand and laces their fingers together, tugging a little until he looks up at her. “Hey. Hey,” she leans closer to him, “don’t let it get bad again, okay?” When he doesn’t answer, she tightens her hold. “Promise me, Derek. Promise me you won’t let it get too bad again.”

She’s looking at him with her big, dark eyes and he forces himself to twist his lips up into something resembling a smile. “I promise. It’ll be different this time.” He makes a show of taking out his phone to check the time. “In fact, I actually have to go. I took that job teaching at the studio. Today’s my first day.”

Cora lets go of his hand when he makes to stand and beams up at him. “Derek, that’s awesome!”

They say their goodbyes and then Derek leaves the apartment, slipping on his leather jacket and slinging a bag over his shoulder with some of the dance stuff left in the back of his closet from a million years ago. He takes the subway today, still feeling a little residual chill from his nightmare this morning. He gets to the studio a little early and stands around for a few minutes, smoking. It’s almost exactly noon when he walks inside the studio, heading right for the receptionist’s desk. This time, the woman notices him before he gets there.

She stands up when she sees him, smiling a little. “Derek. Good to see you again. I’ll take you to the studio you’ll be working in today.”

He nods at her and she turns her back, motioning for him to follow. She leads him down another hallway from the last time he was here, turning to another before she stops in front of a door with _Studio 5_ written on a plaque beside it. “This is where you’ll be for today. There’s a changing room right there,” she points to another door across the hall, “if you need it. Go on in when you’re ready.”

She leaves without another word and Derek takes a deep breath, wishing he could smoke another cigarette to calm his nerves. Instead, he grabs the handle and opens the door. It leads into a room with a polished wood floor that gleams in the warm light. The walls are done in an array of fall themed colors that make the studio feel warm and inviting.

That is, until he sees Stiles stretching against the wall rail. He groans, dropping his bag loudly onto the floor by the door. Stiles turns sharply, almost overbalancing and falling over. “ _Jesus_ , dude,” he says after he’s gained back some of his composure. “Rule number one is always knock before you enter a studio. If there’s silence, it means enter. Generally, if someone says anything, it means they’re in the middle of something and to come back later. Do you understand?” Derek crosses his arms but nods stiffly. Stiles lets out a breath. “Okay. Good. Rule number two is to always do your stretches. So c’mon, warm up.” Stiles moves from the rail to the center of the floor and sits down, stretching out his legs. Derek walks over slowly, watching Stiles a little warily as he sits down opposite him.

He notices the splint when Stiles’ long-sleeved shirt pulls up at the wrist during a stretch. “What happened?” He asks, motioning to Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles blinks at him before he ducks his head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Keep stretching.” They stretch for a good twenty minutes after that, until Derek’s limbs are relaxed and his muscles are loose. Stiles goes over to the speaker system by the wall and turns to Derek. “So, do you have a track for today, or…?”

Derek goes back to his bag and pulls out his iPod before he walks over and turns it to the correct playlist. Stiles takes it from him and plugs it in.

The music starts with a flourish—a loud, hard beat that thuds against Derek’s skull. He’s not really a fan of songs like this, but they’re easy to dance to. He heads back into the middle of the dance floor and Stiles follows. “Are you ready?” he asks Stiles, if a little condescendingly. He knows that sometimes people think the moves exotic dancers do look easy, but they can be hard, even for experienced dancers. Derek’s trained a lot of people at the club, and he’s good at what he does. He looks Stiles over, notes his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and lithe muscles. He wonders if he can keep up.

Stiles nods and shakes out his arms a little, blowing out a breath. “Good to go.”

“Okay,” Derek says, even as a mean grin pulls at his lips. “This is what I’m thinking to start the class out with. It’s one of the basic routines I teach to the newbies at the club.”

The song isn’t that far in yet, so Derek picks up with the music. Stiles steps back to give him more space, but his eyes never leave Derek. It’s a little disconcerting and Derek forces himself to give himself over to the syncopated rhythm of the song. He moves just like he would on the stage of the club, doing the moves that he thinks the classes would like to learn the best, if not the moves that he specifically likes the best. The routine is something sexier than he normally goes for, but he still adds in enough of his style that it won’t be a carbon copy of what Boyd or Danny do. He’s worked up a light sweat by the time the song ends and he turns back to Stiles.

He’s looking at Derek with dark, wide eyes, face a little flushed and mouth hanging open. He gapes for a second before he clears his throat. “Uh…yeah, I think that’ll work. There might—there might be some moves I’d suggest you scale back a little. Not everyone will be able to do all of the dips and leg work like you, but, yeah. It, uh, looks good.” Stiles stands there for another minute before he walks back over to the center of the floor. “Okay. Teach me.”

Derek smirks and the music starts again.

He goes through the first couple steps, breaking them down into counts like he would for a class. Stiles catches on quickly—which, Derek thinks, he should, considering this is his profession. They move on from there, working through most of the footwork, Derek fighting with Stiles on scaling it back when Stiles tells him to. They’re halfway through learning the song, an hour and a half into the practice, when Stiles tells him to stop for a water break. They each go to their bags, sipping down their room-temperature liquid. Derek watches as Stiles removes the splint from his wrist and unwraps the bandage. Derek can see the swelling from where he’s sitting. “You should put some ice on that.”

Stiles huffs out a breath. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I think I’ve had enough ice this week to last me another year. Thanks, by the way, for that.”

Derek lets out a chuckle at that. “Don’t be a dick to people and you won’t get punched in the face.”

Stiles presses his lips together. “Touché.” He re-wraps his wrist and puts the splint back before he digs in his bag and takes out a bottle of ibuprofen. He takes a couple and swallows some more water. “Okay. Let’s get back to it. Contrary to what Lydia seems to think, I don’t really want to spend the whole of my day off stuck in this building.”

Derek looks at him sharply. “Today’s your day off?”

Stiles stretches his arms over his head, loosening up his shoulders, causing his Henley to ride up a little bit, drawing Derek’s attention. “Yep,” he says, popping the last sound. “Allison’s teaching a class in _Studio 1_ , Lydia’s out of town, and Scott’s MIA—probably off somewhere with Isaac. So you get stuck with me—again. It’s your lucky fucking week.”

“Maybe your friends just like to see you suffer.” He adds helpfully.

Stiles snorts. “Something like that. Okay, big guy, let’s go.”

Derek walks back over to restart the music. They go through the beginning of the song, doing all the steps, until they make it to the middle and Derek takes over breaking it down again. Stiles follows Derek’s lead until they get to one particularly hard move. It’s second nature now for Derek to throw himself into the move, twisting his body in just the right way, gyrating his hips in the fashion that the move demands. It’s a slightly more skillful dance move, one that took Derek a little longer than normal to get the hang of, so he just shows Stiles it again. It isn’t until they’ve been practicing the same move for nearly a half hour that Derek starts to get frustrated.

“Come on, Stiles. It’s not that fucking hard. You just lift your arms and twist your hips.” He emphasizes his point by once again doing the step-by-step process. Stiles is looking at him with a mix of envy and loathing. He lifts his arms into the correct formation and tries to do the hip thing Derek demonstrated, but overbalances and falls onto his ass.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you call yourself a dancer?” Derek all but yells, throwing his hands up in utter frustration. “What kind of shit is that? You’re acting like you’ve never danced a day in your life before. I mean, are you always this terrible or is it a special skill that I seem to bring out of you?” He’s seething by the time he stops talking, turning to glare down at Stiles.

The other man gets to his feet—albeit on shaky limbs—and gets right up in Derek’s face. “Fuck you. I have a degree in dance from U.C. Berkeley.”

Derek rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Good fucking job. Now I’ll know never to refer anyone who actually intends to know how to dance there.”

Stiles steps even closer. Like this, they’re pretty much the same height and Stiles pins Derek with his angry whiskey-brown eyes. “Don’t act like you’re so fucking high and mighty, Derek. At the end of the day, you’re nothing more than a guy who dances in a club. Who are you to tell me that I don’t know how to dance? What makes you the fucking expert? Hmm?”

Derek can see the rapid rise and fall of Stiles’ heavy breaths. He leans in, until their faces are just centimeters apart. Derek’s gaze moves from his eyes down to Stiles’ still slightly parted lips before he makes eye contact again. “I went to Juilliard.” He utters the words before he’s pulling back, moving away from where Stiles is standing, gaping like a fish. Derek cracks his neck before he turns back to Stiles. “Do it again.”

Stiles snaps his mouth closed, narrowing his eyes at the other man, but he does as he’s told, lifting his arms back up to position. This time, when he goes to move his hips, Derek is there, reaching out to set one hand on the man’s hips, the other pressing in to the arc of Stiles’ back, pushing his hip one way and forcing him to bow his back another. Stiles comes out of it on a turn, arms in the next position, even if it is a little unstable. He stands there for a moment, looking at Derek like he’s never really seen him before.

It makes something in his stomach jump and he looks away. The pride he feels at having helped Stiles to grasp the mechanics of the move is overcome by trepidation. He clears his throat and moves on to walk Stiles through the rest of the song. He doesn’t touch Stiles again after that. Stiles learns all of the moves and they run through the routine in full for the last time and it goes off without a hitch.

Stiles turns to him when they’re done. “I’ll have someone call you to confirm, but we’re thinking if you could teach one class on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and another block class Saturday mornings?”

Derek nods in acquiesce. It would make for long Saturdays, but it would also be extra money. “Sure,” he mutters. “Can I go now?”

Stiles looks like he wants to protest, but instead he nods. Derek is out of the studio without so much as a backward glance.

 

~


	3. Three

Stiles gets to the studio earlier on Wednesday than he normally does, walking through the front door in a flurry of movement. The storm raging outside is starting to look like a nasty one. He stomps his snowy shoes on the welcome mat and waves a hello to Kira, the receptionist. He stops to ask her about how things have been so far this morning and to catch up a little before he waves a small goodbye and heads toward his office. The offices are empty, but he knows that Allison and Lydia are both somewhere in the building, Allison teaching and Lydia probably getting their lunch ready so the two of them can eat after Allison’s class ends and before Lydia’s starts. He doesn’t mind the quiet, if only for a little bit, so he takes off his coat and sets down his bag. He decided to wear his dance clothes in today, so he doesn’t worry about changing, just switches his shoes.

It’s ten to noon when Kira calls to let him know Isaac is here for their first session. He goes out into the lobby to meet him and leads him back to _Studio 3_. Isaac looks a little nervous when they walk into the brightly lit room. The floor is polished and gleaming under Stiles’ feet when he turns to beckon Isaac to the middle of the floor. “We should warm up before we start.”

Isaac nods a little jerkily and follows Stiles’ movements. They stretch for a suitable amount of time before Isaac starts to relax and Stiles decides on small talk. “So, Isaac, did you grow up here or did you move for college?”

Isaac looks at Stiles, stretching his right leg. “No, I grew up in the suburbs. I always wanted to live here, though, so when I graduated, my best friend and I moved here. We’d been working whatever odd jobs we could in high school to save up money, and we both happened to get pretty decent scholarships.”

Stiles nods, walking over to turn on the music, “What’s your major?”

“History,” Isaac says, a little nervously.

“Nice!” The music starts—a playlist of songs that are easy to dance to, perfect for what Stiles will be teaching him today. He shows Isaac a few moves and has the other man mirror them back to him. “So, living with your long-time best friend, that must be cool.”

Isaac finishes a turn and smiles at him. “Yeah, Matt’s pretty awesome. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. And then when—when my dad died, his parents took me in.”

Stiles stills for a moment. He doesn’t say he’s sorry—because he _hates_ that—just sort of nods understandingly. “How did he die?”

“Heart attack.” Isaac nods stoically. “I had just turned seventeen. Matt was a really good friend to me then, helped me get through it. He’s like my brother, y’know?”

Stiles laughs a little. “Man, do I get that. I mean, I only met Scott freshman year of college because we were roommates, but it was like—instant friendship. He’s the coolest dude.”

Stiles watches Isaac’s face soften and get that kind of faraway look before he’s whispering, “Yeah. Yeah, he kind of is.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a long moment. It feels like he’s looking in on something he shouldn’t be seeing, like Scott should be here to share this moment with Isaac, not Stiles. He feels like an intruder and it makes him uncomfortable in his own skin. But, there’s a small, awful part of his brain muttering to him that that’s what he wants—to have somebody look like that when they think about him. It’s a terrible, miserable thought and he tries to shove it away, cut off that train of thinking.

He shakes his head and clears his throat to get Isaac’s attention. They spend the next two hours dancing, until Isaac’s shirt is soaked in sweat and Stiles is panting a little bit. They’re just finishing up a jump that Isaac’s been having trouble with. He lands it—finally—and Stiles calls it a day. Overall, it’s been a really good session. Isaac is a natural, that much is obvious. Stiles can see a lot of Scott’s influence in the way he holds himself, in the footwork.  Isaac is a hard worker, always pushing himself to go just that little bit further, and Stiles can—does—respect that. Isaac reminds Stiles of Derek in that way, and wonders if that’s from the training that Derek gives him and the other club workers.

“Hey,” Stiles speaks as they’re toweling off the sweat and drinking some water, “Can I ask you something?”

Isaac shrugs, “Sure.”

“Have you heard anything from Derek? I mean, Kira tried calling him and left a voicemail, but he hasn’t called back. And—I mean, I know I gave him the green light to start teaching next week, but you’d think he’d call to verify or something.”

Isaac watches him intently for a moment. “To be honest, it’s kind of normal for no one to hear from him for a few days. I mean, the dude’s just kind of one of those people. He works at the club Thursday through Sunday, and some Wednesdays, and then disappears until the next time he needs to be there. He keeps to himself.”

Stiles frowns. “Yeah, but what does he do when he’s not working? He’s got to have like hobbies or something.”

“He trains a group of us on Friday mornings. Sometimes he’ll train with Danny. I don’t know. He doesn’t really talk about himself much. I’ve known him for almost a year, and the most I’ve gotten out of him is that he has a sister and he’s working as an exotic dancer because he really needs the money. He’s not really an open book.”

Stiles hums in assent. “I’ve noticed.” He finishes off his water bottle before he walks over and claps Isaac on the shoulder. “You did good today, man. Keep it up and you’ll be better than Scott in no time.”

Isaac rolls his eyes, but blushes a little nonetheless. “I’ll never be better than Scott.”

Isaac heads for the door and Stiles can’t help but agree—Isaac’s good, and he’ll always be good, but Scott is great, and that’s hard to compete with.

 

~

 

It’s Friday afternoon and Stiles is hanging out with Scott at the apartment Scott shares with Kira—she is already at the studio, well into her work day of taking phone calls and all-around being the best scheduler in the world other than Lydia—before both he and Scott need to get going to teach their classes—Stiles to teach a ballet class, and Scott to teach his popular tango class. It’s been a long time—too long—since they’ve hung out, just the two of them, and Stiles misses it like a limb. It’s not that he doesn’t love Allison and Lydia, and even Kira and Heather, and the group they’ve made for themselves—because they are great friends, and hanging out with everyone is always a blast—but sometimes, when Stiles lets himself think about when he first met Scott during his first year of college—when he’d gone to campus for the first time and hadn’t known anyone, and then met his roommate—Scott—he lets himself remember that Scott was his only friend for a long time—maybe his first real friend in even longer.

“Dude,” Stiles says over pizza, Scott already digging in to his third slice, “remember that one time you had a crush on Allison freshman year?” The look Scott gives him is like he’s just said he’s going to blow up a building or something, but Stiles can’t really blame him for it. Everyone knows not to talk about freshman year with Stiles, and he loves them for the consideration, but sometimes, it feels good to remember the past instead of running away from it.

So Stiles laughs a little, taking a bite of his own slice. “I thought Lydia was going to cut your balls off and feed them to you.”

Scott looks over at Stiles, consideringly, like he’s testing the waters to see what kind of a mood Stiles is in—and, again, Stiles can’t really blame him—but then Scott smiles a little and shrugs. “Hey, man, what can I say? You can’t blame me. It was my first experience with a hot older girl hitting me up.”

“Dude, she asked you for a pen in dance theory and you fell in lust with her. It took you all of point-two-seconds. I know; I was there.”

Scott rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Hey. Hot sophomore girl being nice to me, how was I supposed to react? And don’t pretend like you didn’t follow Lydia around for _months_ , acting like the _worst_ puppy because you thought she was a goddess and she’d never even looked at you.”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times. “Okay, yeah, so _maybe_ that happened for a little while.” He grabs another slice from the box and takes a bite. His thoughts turn from nostalgia to something deeper, darker, and he loses his appetite, setting the plate and the half-eaten slice of pizza down. He draws up his knees and hooks his arms around them. “You know, it’s kind of amazing how much has changed since then. I mean, we were eighteen—Lydia and Allison were nineteen—and now look at us. You and me, twenty-five. All of us—making something for ourselves, doing what we love, following our passions. It’s crazy how things change.”

Scott’s turned so that he’s facing Stiles now, looking at him with a hint of worry. “Things have to change, Stiles. That’s the way life is. Nothing stays the same forever.” The words are quiet, but strong—just like Scott.

Stiles glances up at him from where he’d been staring at the cardboard pizza box. “I know. But, don’t you wish, sometimes, that you could go back?—Just for a little bit, to the time before things changed and just—enjoy it a little bit more, do things differently, knowing what’s coming next?”

Scott’s lips twist into a grimace before he’s reaching over to wrap his arms around Stiles and draw him into a hug. Stiles sighs and holds on tightly, soaking in the embrace. It’s been _way_ too long since he’s had a hug. Scott always seemed to know when he needed one, and this time is no different. “No,” Scott whispers, “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” It’s nothing more than a mumble into Scott’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t want to know if something bad was coming. Sometimes, I think knowing makes it worse.”

Stiles sighs against Scott’s shoulder. “I don’t know, man. Some days I think I’d do anything to be able to go back, warn myself—so I could call him or _something_ —”

“Stiles,” Scott pulls back from the hug, cutting him off. “Hey, man, listen to me.” He shakes Stiles a little bit until he looks at him. “Listen to me. Nothing you could’ve done would’ve changed anything. What happened—it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known. Stop blaming yourself for things that were out of your control.”

Stiles’ eyes start to sting, but he blinks away the wetness. “It’s not that easy, dude.”

Scott rolls his eyes and punches Stiles lightly on the shoulder. “Of course it’s not that easy. I never said it would be. But—sometimes we have to do hard things.”

Stiles lifts an eyebrow, seeing the opening to change the conversation to something else. “Oh? Is that what you say to Isaac?”

Stiles watches in fascination as Scott turns red from his neck to the tips of his ears. “I hate you so much, Stiles.”

Stiles grins, “You _love_ me.”

“ _Hate_ you.” Scott mutters, crossing his arms. “You’re the worst friend ever. I don’t know why I put up with you. Get out of my house.” He points to the front door with a put-upon expression.

Stiles settles back into the couch and picks up his neglected pizza, taking a bite. “Nope,” he makes sure to pop the ‘p’ because it annoys Scott. “You’re stuck with me, buddy.”

Scott groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“Hey!” He quips, reaching over to punch Scott on the arm.

“Ow!” Scott rubs at where Stiles hit him. “Careful or I’ll hurt your other wrist and you won’t be able to jack off anymore.”

Stiles gasps in mock-horror. “Scotty, you wouldn’t!”

Scott’s grin is evil when he lunges for Stiles. “Oh, I _totally_ would.”

 

~

 

By late Friday night—which is actually well into Saturday morning—Derek is just waiting for the weekend to be over so he can finally have a day off. He just wants a reason to stay in his room, sleep Monday away in his bed, block out the rest of the world. He wants to get rid of the ever-pounding music in his head, wants to sleep off the touches of too many people forcing him onto his knees or his back. It’s an inconsequential thought, though; one Derek’s reminded of when he feels the john’s hands—Victor—bruising into his hips.

Instead of the alley behind _Chaos_ , Derek is in Victor’s car, face pressed against the faux-leather backseats in a way he knows will probably leave an unattractive mark on his face, ass up in the air for the other man to fuck into. The man’s panting, grunting, rutting his hips against Derek’s in the worst way possible. It’s not comfortable and Derek thinks he’d rather be anywhere else in the world right now than underneath this guy, but he’s one of the few that pays more than the asking price, and Derek knows no matter how many bruises he has tomorrow, or how uncomfortable it will be to sit, it’ll be worth it for the money.

Victor doesn’t worry about bringing Derek off first and he’s glad—he’s been soft the whole time, and it’s always such a struggle to will himself to come when he’s not getting any pleasure from the fucking. Instead, the man places a hand on Derek’s back, pushing him down further into the seats, arching his back and lifting his ass to better the angle for himself. It’s still not pleasant, but Derek can tell—has done this enough—to know that Victor is close, so he ruts back against him, bringing Victor off with a hiss and a painful slap to his ass.

Later, after Derek’s pulled his clothes back on and stuffed the money from the john into his jacket pocket with the rest of his tips from the night, he starts to head home. He thinks about taking the subway, but he stills smells like sex, so he opts to walk instead, give him a chance to air out and breathe in the cold city air. The sidewalks are slushy from the snow that fell a few days ago and he kicks at it with his shoes.

A streetlight floods the road, lightens the dark night in a circle of too-stark white, and he stops under it. The brightness is harsh after walking through the dark, but he just takes the moment to pull out a cigarette from his case and light it. The flame flickers in the slight wind and Derek watches it dance before it wilts away.

He takes a deep drag, feeling the smoke seep into his lungs, and his head clears. He starts to walk once more, taking periodic puffs of the smoke until his chest loosens and his fingers start to smell more like nicotine and less like faint traces of lube and come. Ash trails his path like breadcrumbs, disappearing into the dark, and Derek wonders if he could ever follow the ash back to who he used to be—if he could ever return to the guy that used to want something, that used to believe in things and dance because it was something he loved. The cigarette singes his fingers and he drops it, seeing that it’s burned down to the filter, the plastic starting to smoke away and blacken. He sighs and stubs it into the snow with his shoe until the flame dies.

The apartment building looks cold, dark, empty when he makes it back. He takes the stairs because the elevator is loud and he doesn’t want to wake up Mrs. Brown, the old lady that lives right next to the elevator shaft on the first floor. He walks up the four flights before he turns down the hallway. The bare bulb on the ceiling is flickering again, and he reminds himself to ask if Cora told Laura or Deucalion to call maintenance.

He opens the apartment door as quietly as he can, unlocking it with care. He doesn’t want to wake anyone up, is suddenly so exhausted that all he wants to do is fall onto his bed and pass out. Normally, the apartment is dark when he gets home, all of the lights turned off except for the kitchen light, which is always on and dim. Today, though, the living room light is on and Derek sees Deucalion waiting for him.

Deucalion stands up motions for Derek to come over before he sits back down. Derek walks over slowly. He clears his throat, “Did Cora tell you about the hallway light?” Deucalion just nods and waves at the chair, an obvious demand for him to sit. Derek rolls his eyes but complies, sitting in the chair opposite the blond man. “You’re waiting up for me now? That’s a little high school, don’t you think?”

Deucalion shrugs. “Laura was worried.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like what Laura’s feeling is the most important thing in his life—and Derek knows that for Deucalion it is, but it still makes something grate inside of him.

“Then why didn’t she stay up to interrogate me instead?”

The other man sighs, “You know she’s busy with work, Derek, don’t be dense.”

Derek makes an irritated sound. “Good night, dick.”

“Derek. We’re just worried about you. You’re never home anymore. I don’t remember the last time the two of us had an actual conversation. And Laura…Laura misses you.”

The words are said so earnestly that Derek looks away from his pale eyes. “Laura doesn’t know me enough to miss me.”

“That’s a shitty excuse and you know it.” Deucalion’s words are heated, his accent more pronounced with the emotion. “The only reason she doesn’t know you as well as Cora is because you won’t let her in. You never let anyone in.” The man shakes his head and it disarms Derek when he looks back to him with sad eyes. “When are you going to learn that there will always be people here for you, whether you want them to be, or not? We aren’t all bad guys.”

 

_“Derek? Hello, my name is Deucalion. I’ll be your lawyer for the trial.” Derek looks up at the man. He doesn’t look old, not as old as Uncle Peter, but he’s really tall. Derek stares at the man’s outstretched hand until he drops it, but then he bends down until he’s eye level with Derek. “Do you know what my job is, Derek?”_

_Derek looks over to Laura, his sixteen year old sister. She looks so scared and lost, and Derek hates her for it. She’s pacing around the room, having just talked to Deucalion about her own problems. Derek heard the words “custody” and “insurance money” mentioned. Derek hates how small his voice is when he speaks, “You aren’t gonna take me away, are you? I didn’t—I didn’t mean to tell! I swear. I didn’t wanna go to the hospital, but they told me I had to. Please, please don’t let Uncle Peter know I told! Please. Please! I don’t want to be taken away. I didn’t mean to!”_

_He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Cora’s wrapping her small arms around his neck and he’s clinging to her like a lifeline. He’s aware of Laura saying his name, of trying to come over and put her arms around him, but he shies away from her touch. Eventually he lets Cora go and scrubs at his face with his hands._

_Deucalion is looking at him with sad eyes. “Derek, I promise you, your uncle is never going to hurt you again, do you understand? It’s my job to put the bad guys away. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe from him forever. That’s my job, Derek. I’m here for you. I’ll be by your side every step of the way, just like Laura and Cora. We’re here for you. We’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”_

_The conviction in the man’s voice is enough to make Derek swallow back another sob, but he nods to the words. “Wh—what’s gonna happen to Uncle Peter?” It’s a tentative question, barely heard in the silent room._

_Deucalion gives him a small, sad smile—more of a grimace, really—“We can discuss that later. But for now, just know that he’s been bad, and he needs to be punished. But you, Derek, you haven’t done anything wrong. Sometimes there are just bad people in the world, and it’s up to good people to stop them.”_

_Derek leans forward a little, as if trying to see an answer for himself when he asks, “What are you?”_

_Deucalion smiles and it makes Derek smile back—just hint of a thing. “I’m a good guy, Derek. I swear to you, I’m a good guy.”_

Derek sighs, bone weary, and sags against the back of the chair he’s sitting in. “What do you want from me, Deuc? I’ve been this way for almost fifteen years. I’m not suddenly going to change because Laura wants to finally start acting like an older sister. The world doesn’t fucking work that way.” Derek makes to stand up, “And by the way, hopefully I’ll be out of your hair before too much longer, so you won’t have to worry about me.”

Deucalion stands after Derek does. “Actually, that’s another thing I wanted to discuss with you.” Derek turns around from where he’d started heading toward his room. “I couldn’t help but see the bank statement you left out last week and I—”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You went through my stuff?—You were in my room?” Derek can taste the anger on his tongue, spits the words out and takes a step toward the other man.

Deucalion just lifts his hands in surrender. “We’re _worried_ about you. What part of that don’t you _get_? That’s not the point,” he shakes his head. “I couldn’t help but notice you have quite a bit of money saved up—”

“Yeah, so what if I do?”

“—More than one in your profession would typically make. In fact, I took the liberty of finding your tax forms from last year and you’ve been banking almost double the money that you made last year, but you’re still getting paid the same wages. It’s interesting that even with your sizable weekly payments to a private medical establishment, you’re still saving money. ” He levels Derek with a look that he can’t read and his blood runs cold. “It’s a curious thing. What could you be doing to make that much cash on the side? Surely the tips at your club aren’t _that_ great all the time.”

Derek clears his throat, tries to wet his suddenly dry mouth. “I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.” But he has a sinking suspicion that he does. He doesn’t know how—how Deuc could possibly know about what he does on the side—but it terrifies him.

Deucalion looks at him for another long moment, like he’s sizing Derek up before he says, “I’m sure you do, Derek.” The other man takes a few steps toward him and Derek freezes like a deer in headlights. “You’ll do well to remember that I’ve always been able to tell when you were lying. I’m not so easily fooled as your sisters.” He reaches a hand out and places it on Derek shoulder and Derek is proud that he only flinches a little. It’s not that he’s ever been afraid of Deucalion, because he’s been around for over half of Derek’s life—but he is always wary of him, of the power he has, of the potential threat he could be.

Deucalion sighs. “Whatever you’re doing, just be careful, alright? We don’t want to see you hurt. And—none of us want a repeat of a few years ago, yeah?”

Derek vehemently shakes his head before he catches himself and pushes Deucalion’s arm away. “You say that like you’re the one it happened to. You know, all of you seem to forget that it was _me_ , not _you_ whose life was ruined. So, why don’t you just do me a favor and fuck off, Deuc. Stop pretending to be my father. He died a long time ago.”

Derek turns away before he sees the hurt flash across the other man’s face.

 

~

 

Stiles definitely does not sit in on Derek’s first ever class. He totally doesn’t. It’s purely coincidental scheduling that has Stiles’ class ending only fifteen minutes before Derek’s first class starts, and that both of them are teaching in the same studio that day—the one Stiles trained Derek in—because one of the pipes in the bathrooms burst and it flooded into a corner of _Studio 1_.

He has no intention of actually staying and watching Derek teach for the first time, but it just sort of happens. Normally, Stiles stays after his classes to talk to some of the people in them. He makes himself there for the clients—be it if they have questions, concerns, or just want a few tips on a certain move. Stiles never used to be good at schmoozing and small talk, but he’s found over the last few years that it’s an important quality for an instructor and a business owner. So, he stays and talks to some of the clients—Jamie, Brian, Lou, Kelsey, Ana—barely managing to grab a towel to wipe some of the sweat from his face before he’s bombarded.

By the time he’s finally done talking to Brian about the kind of dance shoe he prefers, the room is already filling up with excited patrons, ready to learn a new type of dance. He sees a few people he knows. He notes that both Kate and Julia are here—the friends of that nurse—what was her name?—Lauren? Kate comes over to make small talk with him and they chat about Allison for a second before Derek is standing up at the front of the room and clearing his throat.

Stiles sinks into the back of the small crowd, not wanting Derek to see him and think he’s keeping tabs on the guy—because he isn’t—but leaving now would draw everyone’s attention to him and he doesn’t want to be rude. So, he stays.

Derek surprises Stiles by being a really gentle teacher. Gone are the harsh, bitten out commands he used with Stiles, and instead, he’s talking patiently to the students, walking them through warming up, explaining why—at the outburst of a particular girl Stiles knows thinks she is the shit—stretching your muscles is the most important thing to do before you start to dance. He sounds clinical and professional, and when Derek shows the class the first move, he has their full attention.

The clients watch him steadily and he sees on a few of the faces that Derek isn’t really what they expected. He’s sure people were expecting a flamboyant, overly sexual man to walk in swinging his hips and winking at every turn. But Derek is not that person. He is strong and composed, his movements tending toward more animalistic than sexual, but Stiles is glad to see that he’s taken Stiles’ criticism and changed his routine a little, just enough to make it something sexy and different.

The music is a steady thud in the studio and the dancers seem to be picking up the beat easily enough, Stiles himself following along without a problem. There’s a little less leg work and a little more hips and turns than when he taught Stiles. It’s really different than the style in which Derek danced at the club, but Stiles finds it’s really not bad to watch, not when he can see Derek shooting small smiles to people who are excited when they nail a move, or hear the way he speaks—so soothing—to instruct the class on the next move. It’s refreshing to watch Derek and follow his moves without being bitched at. It doesn’t hurt, either, that Derek is only in a tank top and sweatpants, barefooted on the floor, sweat already soaking into the top of his shirt.

The class is winding to an end before Stiles is really even aware of it, Derek looking at the clock and telling the class to work through what they’ve learned one more time and he’ll walk around the room to make sure they’re doing it correctly. The song starts again and Stiles is impressed with the amount of people that still remember the moves. Derek only stops a handful of times to show a few people the proper way to do a step, before suddenly he’s in the back and walking up to Stiles. They haven’t learned the whole routine yet, but Stiles remembers that the next part is the turn that he had trouble with. He may or may not have practiced relentlessly until he got it right, so he shows off a little, moving into the turn without trouble as Derek watches.

Derek just lifts an eyebrow in response, before he turns to the rest of the class and tells them that they’re done for the day, but to not be late on Thursday. About half the class stays after, all of them vying for Derek’s attention. Stiles can’t help but notice that at one point, Kate is all but draping herself over Derek’s shoulder. He looks uncomfortable and Stiles thinks about saving him, but then Derek manages to maneuver out of her hold in something that speaks to how often he’s had to remove himself from an unwanted touch. It probably happens all the time, in his profession, and Stiles remembers—viscerally—how much Derek doesn’t like to be touched.

It’s almost forty minutes later by the time the last person leaves, an older teen that’s looking to break into exotic dancing who asked if Derek had any advice. Derek lets out a slightly weary sigh before he goes to his bag, digging around for a bottle of water. He downs it all in one go before he seems to notice that he isn’t alone. Stiles closes the distance with a grin on his face. “Not bad for your first time.”

Although Derek’s stopped sweating, he pulls out his towel and starts to run it through his hair. He just grunts at Stiles, like it’s taken everything out of him to play niceties with his students.

“For real, though. You did a really good job. You’re much better at this whole teaching thing than I thought you’d be.” Stiles isn’t looking at Derek, but he can all but feel the glare the other man throws him. “Shit. I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant.” He lets out a breath. “You’re a really good dance teacher. Not a lot of people have it in them to teach. That’s all I meant. I’m sorry. I’m really not trying to be an asshole.” He motions toward the door. “You know what, I’m actually just gonna go.”

He’s already halfway to the door before Derek speaks. “You practiced the turn.”

Stiles twists back around and runs a hand through his own still-damp hair. “Uh, yeah. I did.”

Derek’s looking at him, his eyes a little narrowed but more like he’s sizing him up and less like he’s thinking about punching Stiles in the face again. “Why?”

The blush starts before he can completely will it away. He shrugs, though, refusing to let it bother him. “I’ve always liked learning new ways of dancing. This one is fun and a lot different than what I normally do.” He cocks his head to the side.  “I guess I like a challenge.”

Derek just stares at him for a moment longer and then he raises an eyebrow. “You still need to work on it. It’s jagged when you lift your arms. Your footwork is better, though.”

Stiles nods seriously, taking a few steps back toward Derek. “Noted. Good thing I’ve got a pretty decent teacher.” Derek doesn’t say anything after that, so Stiles shifts awkwardly from foot to foot in the silence. “I just wanted to thank you, Derek, again—for agreeing to teach here. The class really likes you. They follow your instructions and respect you. I mean, it’s only the first day, but that’s more than I had my first class. You should be proud.”

He isn’t aware that he’s completely closed the distance between them, until he’s standing right in front of Derek, with barely a foot between them. It’s then that he notices the dark circles under Derek’s eyes, sees the subtle shake in his fingers when he reaches up to adjust the shoulder strap of his bag. Derek doesn’t take his eyes off of Stiles, though. It should be intimidating, to be the focus of so much attention from his pale eyes, but instead, Stiles smiles—small, soft—and Derek’s eyes trail down to Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles wets his lips, an unconscious gesture, but he’s suddenly aware of the fact that _Derek is staring at his mouth_. He takes a deep breath and it seems to draw Derek’s eyes back up to his. Derek’s gaze is slightly unfocused, his eyes racing across Stiles’ face. “This isn’t a good idea.” The words are barely a whisper.

“What isn’t a good idea?” He speaks equally as quiet, like saying the words too loudly would shatter whatever this is.

“Us.” The word is a breath, even as Derek drops his bag from his shoulder, taking a small step toward Stiles.

Stiles bites his bottom lip for a moment, watches Derek’s gaze flicker to them. “What—what about us?” But he’s stepping forward, too.

Derek brings a hand up to settle on the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ eyes flutter closed at the warmth of his palm. Derek’s thumb strokes over Stiles’ jaw for a moment—and then Derek’s closing the distance between them, pressing his mouth to Stiles’.

Derek’s lips are warm and a little chapped, and when Derek opens his mouth, he tastes faintly like cigarette smoke. Derek brings his hand up slowly, running it through Stiles’ hair and Stiles grabs a fistful of Derek’s tank top before he deepens the kiss. Stiles presses his chest against Derek’s and nips at his bottom lip before he soothes it with his tongue. It isn’t long until their hands are roaming all over the other’s exposed skin, the kiss turning from something soft and tentative to something fierce and biting. Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ hair and Stiles moans against Derek’s mouth, bucking his hips on reflex.

But then Derek’s stilling against him, stepping away so fast, Stiles feels himself sway a little, blinking at the other man. Derek has a look of dawning horror on his face. “Fuck,” his voice is higher than Stiles has ever heard it before. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Stiles shakes his head, still feeling a little dizzy. “No.” His voice is rough, “No, I mean, yes. That definitely needed to happen. In fact, we should do more of that.”

Derek’s shaking his head almost violently though, bending down to pick up his forgotten bag. “No,” the word is harsh in the quiet of the room. “This was a mistake. I—I have to go.”

He rushes out of the studio so fast that all Stiles can do is watch him leave.

 

~

 

On Wednesday morning, Stiles wakes up early. He dresses lethargically, eats a little something, and rubs the sleep from his eyes on his way out of his apartment. He walks over to the nature trails by the park, shoving his fingers further into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He would’ve worn a coat, but the gloves and scarf make up for it. Besides, he always gets warm when he runs.

It’s something he tries to do every couple of days, if he’s not too busy. He likes the feel of the ground under his feet, breathing in the fresh air, seeing something that isn’t concrete and brick. Allison arrives a few minutes later, punctual as always, with a wave. They don’t always run together, not like they used to. Sometimes Stiles calls Lydia or Scott or he runs alone if he’s not feeling particularly social. He would’ve gone alone today, but Allison called him to tell him she missed him, and she so rarely asks him to run together that he couldn’t say no, doesn’t want to. Out of the group of them, there are days when he feels like Allison understands him the most. Maybe it’s because they lived together for the first few years when the group of them moved to the city, up until she moved in with Lydia last year. There are still moments when he feels like Allison is the sister he never had. It’s nothing against Scott—but his outlook on life is so happy and optimistic—and there are some days when he just needs to know that it’s okay to be not okay. Allison always understands that.

They start the run in silence, setting a steady pace and picking one of the trails they’ve both run often enough. The day is just starting to break, rose-gold light trying its hardest to filter down through the overcast sky. Stiles wonders if it’s going to snow again. They run for a while longer before Allison speaks, her voice barely winded. “So, yesterday was Derek’s first day, right?”

Stiles slips a little on an icy spot. “Uh, yeah.”

Allison looks over at him with a quick smile. “How did it go, do you know?”

“Yeah, no, I think it went well. I, uh, might’ve stayed for his class.” He ignores Allison’s slightly inquisitive leer. “He’s a natural.”

Her dimples flash. “Oh? Do tell.”

His face heats, even as he mumbles out, “There’s nothing to tell.”

Fingers wrap around his bicep, urging him to a stop. They are both breathing a little heavily by now, breath fogging in the cold air. “Wait, wait, wait. I know that look. Did something happen with you and Derek?”

Out of all of Stiles’ flaws, the thing he hates the most is that he’s never been able to resist puppy-dog eyes—especially not Allison’s. He groans. “Why are we stopping? Why did we stop? You _know_ this is bad for our mojo—”

“Stiles.”

He throws his head back, looking away from her overly dramatic sad eyes for a moment. “Yes, okay. God. Sometimes I fucking hate you.”

She purses her lips and gives him a look. “You always did suck at lying—remember all those times you used to lie about doing the dishes?—I always knew. Now spill.”

He worries at his bottom lip. “If I tell you, will you drop it so we can get back to our run?” She rolls her eyes, but nods in assent. “I, uh, stayed after, to tell him that I thought the class went really well, and to just, like, reiterate a thanks for agreeing to teach for us. And then, I don’t really know what happened, but he kissed me?” He says it quietly, like a question, like he still doesn’t even know if it really happened, or if it was something in a dream.

“What?” Allison demands, voice loud enough that a bird flies from a nearby tree. “You’re kidding!”

Stiles remembers the feel of Derek’s lips pressing against his, of the warm hands on his body, of Derek’s body solid against his—and then just as quickly remembers Derek walking out of the room, leaving Stiles hurt, confused, and horny. “Nope. Not kidding. The best part of it all was when he stopped and said it was a mistake then ran out. It was fucking _awesome_ let me tell you…”

He starts to walk away, back toward the entrance to the trails, suddenly over the run, soured by the memories of the day before. He hears Allison’s, “Hey, wait!” before he feels the hand on his shoulder. He turns around to face her with a sigh. She’s looking at him with sad eyes—her real, heartbreakingly sad eyes—but there’s no pity in them, just concern for a friend, and he loves her for it. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I didn’t mean to—I’m shouldn’t have asked.”

He lets out a long exhale. “No. No, it’s not your fault, Alli. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just—I don’t even know. He’s a fucking asshole.”

The corner of Allison’s mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Y’know, there’s this guy I know. He’s a terrible asshole—went through some really shitty things—and now he’s a little jaded, but he’s not such a bad guy, really.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at her. “Are you calling me a hypocrite?”

She laughs loud enough to make Stiles’ own lips twitch before she sobers and looks at him consideringly. “Do you like him?”

His lips twist up into something that mirrors the way he’s feeling inside. “I don’t know. I really just don’t know. I mean, I don’t even think that’s something on the table right now. He works for us.”

“I work with Lydia and we’re together.”

She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like because it works with them, that it should be able to work for everyone. “Yeah, Alli, but both of you are the bosses. You’re on the same level. And besides, I think it’s pretty obvious that what happened between Derek and I was a one-time thing.”

She shrugs, running her gloved hands up and down her arms in an effort to keep warm. “Stiles, maybe he just needs some time. Maybe you should try talking to him? At least that way you’d know if he’s interested in you back.”

She’s pinning him with such a hopeful expression that he can’t bear to tell her no. “Yeah,” he says, even though he has no intention of following through—if Derek doesn’t want him, then it’s his loss—or something, “maybe.”

 

~

 

After half a week of awkwardly avoiding Stiles every time Derek saw him at the studio, Derek is ready to enjoy one of his too-rare Saturday nights off. It’s amateur night at _Chaos_ , which means that the headliners—Derek included—are not required to be there. So, that leaves Derek walking around the city, trying to figure out what to do with this new-found free time, and trying not to think about Stiles— _especially_ trying not to think about Stiles. Not thinking of the way his body felt rubbing up against Derek’s, or the way his soft brown hair felt clutched between his fingers, and not thinking of the perfect wet heat of Stiles’ mouth, his soft lips.

No. He shakes his head, willing the thoughts away. He can’t afford to think like that—can’t afford to think of _Stiles_ like that. He’s not even sure he likes the guy. He’s too cocky, too loud, too much of an asshole. No, Derek definitely doesn’t like him.

A ringing interrupts his thoughts and he pulls his phone out of his pocket, belatedly wishing he thought to wear gloves tonight. He’s sees Cora’s name on his screen and smiles a little, “Did you butt-dial me, or have I actually been graced with a phone call from my favorite sister?”

He doesn’t even have to be in the same space as her to know she’s probably rolling her eyes at him. “One of these days, bro, Laura’s gonna hear you say shit like that and she’s gonna be upset. But no, I have a purpose behind my phone call. I was supposed to have a date tonight, but he called and cancelled—something about forgetting he had plans with his best friend, or something. Anyway, it’s not important. I just wondered if my favorite brother wanted to come meet me and have a drink.”

Derek thinks about it for an exaggerated amount of time. “Hmm, spending one of my few Saturday nights off hanging with my sister is a new low that I’m not sure I want to sink to…”

Cora snorts through the phone. “Bitch, you love me. Now get your ass to the _Titan Bar_ on Main. I’ll be waiting.”

Derek shakes his head ruefully before he stuffs the phone back into his pocket, already changing direction and heading toward main. He’s been to the _Titan Bar_ a few times, it being only a few blocks away from _Chaos_ , but he’s kind of been wandering around on the other side of town, so it takes him a little while to get to the bar. It’s already pretty late by the time he makes it to the place, and he’s been up for a lot longer than he’s used to—having taught his first eight AM block class this morning. He’s tired, but in less of an I’m-going-to-fall-asleep-standing-up way and in more of an everything-hurts-but-in-a-good-way way.

He walks into bar and looks for Cora for a moment before he sees her hand up in the air, waving him over. She’s sitting by the end of the bar, a drink already waiting for him at the seat beside her, beading with condensation. Cora’s halfway through her own drink, and Derek sees a couple shots waiting on the table as well. He sits down and raises an eyebrow at her. “Did you lure me here in a plan to get us both wasted?”

She just raises an eyebrow back at him and lifts her glass like she’s toasting him. He lift his own glass—cognac, neat—just the way he likes it—and clinks their glasses together before taking a long swallow. Derek doesn’t drink all that often, but there are sometimes when a good drink is just the right kind of burn. He watches, a little bemused, as Cora throws back the rest of her drink, grimacing a little as she all but slams her glass down. “God, that’s awful.” She looks up and motions to the bartender. She comes over and before Derek can say anything, Cora says, “Another for both of us.”  The woman behind the bar just nods before walking away to get their drinks.

Derek knows better than to tell Cora that maybe she should slow down. He knows how much it bothers him to have Laura act like a parent when she’s not one, and he knows it bothers Cora, too, even if she’s not as vocal about it like he is. He takes another swig of his drink. “So, want to tell me what happened?”

Cora grumbles, smoothing down her blouse. It’s then that Derek notices that she’s dressed up, in a fancy top, a skirt, and heels. It’s so different from Cora’s normal jeans and shirt that he wouldn’t have recognized her if he didn’t know it was Cora. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. We were supposed to go out tonight—to that fancy French restaurant—and I was already in a cab over when he called to cancel. Fucking dick. Take this shot with me.” She stops her rant to pick up the brightly colored shot glass in front of her and motions for Derek to do the same. They throw them back as the bartender sets their fresh drinks down in front of them. Derek winces a little at the terrible taste of the shot, even as Cora’s reaching for her new drink. He’s still nursing his own, but Cora doesn’t seem to mind that she’s out-pacing him. “I bet he really isn’t even hanging out with his friend. He said that it’s really rare for the guy to get a Saturday off and so they were gonna spend it together at his apartment. Do you know he hasn’t even invited me back to his place yet? We’ve been on three dates so far. He’s acting like a fucking teenage virgin. Like, we can have sex any day now.”

Derek does not choke on his drink—at least not much. “Uh, okay. Can we redirect this conversation, because I think it’s leading into territory that I really don’t want to hear. Besides, aren’t you always complaining that all guys ever want from you is sex? Isn’t it a good thing that he wants to take things slow?”

Cora slumps a little. “Yeah, I guess. I just sometimes get the feeling that he’s—I don’t know—intimidated by me a little? Like, he’s the kind of guy that has always been catered-to, like girls just throw themselves at him, and I’m not like that. I just feel like I’m fucking things up, like there’s something wrong with me.”

Derek tosses back the rest of his drink and slings an arm over her shoulder, pulling her into a side hug. She comes willingly, resting her head against his shoulder. “Cora, trust me when I say that no one could possibly be more of a fuck-up when it comes to relationships than me.” He lets out a small humorless laugh and Cora opens her mouth like she’s going to protest, but he keeps speaking. “So you really like this guy, huh?”

She sighs a little before righting herself and taking a long sip of her drink. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I just wish I knew if he felt the same way, y’know?”

Derek thinks of Stiles—of the way he makes Derek feel—and he’s consumed just enough alcohol to admit to himself that he really _does_ like Stiles. And it’s something he hates; his feelings warring with his mind. He knows it’s a bad idea—the _worst_ —because the last time he felt this way about someone, it nearly destroyed his life. He licks his suddenly dry lips and swallows down the rest of his drink. “I completely understand.”

She eyes him for a moment before she’s signaling for yet another round of drinks and a few more shots. “So, you started teaching this week, yeah? How’s that going?”

“It’s okay. People seem to be learning well enough. And it’s a good mix of men and women—thank god. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle a class full of cougars trying to hit on me. I get enough of that at the club. Actually, everyone’s really professional.” _Except for me_ , his traitorous mind supplies. Their topped-off glasses arrive and he takes a drink of his. “It’s nice. It’s good so far.”

Cora smiles at him—the first real smile of hers he’s seen all night. “I’m glad. You deserve some good in your life, Derek.”

It’s a while later, after they’ve drank another couple rounds, Cora is giggling almost incessantly, and Derek keeps feeling like he’s tipping off the barstool, that things go downhill.

He doesn’t notice the man until he’s standing almost directly behind Derek and leaning into the space between him and Cora. The man is too close, and Derek thinks for a moment that he recognizes him, but he can’t remember where from. At least, not until the man turns to him with a sour expression and starts to speak, the words spiting from his mouth viciously. “How much is she paying you to fuck her? You don’t have enough men, so now you have to dip into the women, too? Huh, is that it?” Derek is frozen to the spot, drink still in his hand, raised halfway to his mouth. “Or is she the one who will be fucking you tonight? I mean, we both know how much you love having a cock inside of you. Maybe you’re paying _her_ for it this time, is that it?”

Derek’s eyes widen and the color drains from his face. He tries to swallow, but the man’s angry eyes are boring into his. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”

The man smirks, looking between him and Cora with a harsh laugh. “Oh, I don’t think so, _Erebus_.”

 Cora gives him a wide-eyed look, full of questions and Derek can’t stand the look on her face. He’d been so careful for the last year, doing everything he could to not let anyone find out about what he did for some extra cash. He thinks to himself that this is why he doesn’t go out and do things, because the moment he lets his guard down and thinks he can just _finally_ have a semi-normal fucking night, something bad will happen to ruin everything, to destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build. It makes him angry— _livid—_ and Derek stands from the barstool so fast that he knocks it over. He gets into the man’s face, looking down at him with his few inches of extra height, looming with his larger build. When he speaks, his words are low, so only the man—who Derek recognizes as a trick who got a little too physical with him once, and _only_ once—can hear him. “You’re mistaken, Dave—isn’t it? You remember that you’re the one who solicited me, who tried to assault me. And I’m the one that will tell the cops that if you don’t back the fuck off right now, or I swear to god, you’ll be sorry.”

The man, who’d been looking increasingly angrier, shoves Derek’s shoulders at that, and Derek stumbles back, almost falling over his own over-turned barstool. “Are you fucking _threatening_ me?”

Cora is standing up then; reaching out to steady Derek’s swaying form. “Look, buddy,” she starts, her voice as cold as Derek has ever heard it. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, so why don’t you just—”

She’s cut off from whatever she would’ve said by the man backhanding her across the face. It echoes strangely in the quickly quieting bar. He knows people are probably staring at him, but when Cora reaches up to touch her bloody lip, Derek loses his shit. He doesn’t say anything, just feels the rage flood his body, and he’s lunging at the man, swinging as many punches as he can get in, taking the ones the other man manages to land on him as well. Somehow, Derek gets him up against the bar, punching him in the stomach until he doubles over, but then the man reaches behind him and Derek sees the gleam of a beer bottle before it’s slamming down over his head and he’s falling to the floor.

Before the man can do any further damage, some people sitting at the bar finally decide to hold the man back, taking the now broken beer bottle from his hand before they move him toward the door, escorting him out. “Derek!” He hears Cora’s frantic yell, feels her hands on his head where he’s aware of a steady stream of blood trickling down over his temple. He blinks at her from the ground, at where she’s crouched down on the floor next to him. “Shit, you’re bleeding. We have to get you to a hospital.”

He shakes his head, but it makes him a little dizzy. “No hospital.” He winces as she helps him to his feet, “home. Just take me home.” She gives him a look like she’s not sure, but pays the tab and helps him stumble out of the bar nonetheless. Both of them are too drunk to do anything more than call a cab, not trusting themselves on the subway. Cora pulls out a tissue from her purse and tries to wipe away some of the blood to see the cut.

They make it back to the apartment late—really late—and Derek feels bad that they have to use the elevator at such an hour and wake up Mrs. Brown, but he knows there’s no way the two of them would be able to make it up four flights of stairs. He leans on Cora a little bit while she unlocks their door, suddenly feeling all the aches and pains of dancing earlier and the fight he just had. They stumble into the apartment. It’s dark and Cora trips over the rug, almost taking both of them down. He groans at her and she huffs back, maneuvering them toward the dining room.

They make it into the kitchen when the lights come on and Laura races into the room, brandishing a baseball bat. When she sees her siblings she sighs, loudly, “Are you fucking kidding me? I thought someone was breaking in! You two should know better than to make so much noise at this time of night.”

Derek glares at Laura, but Cora just says “‘m sorry,” and shifts Derek’s arm across her shoulders. It’s then that Laura looks at Derek for the first time. Her eyes widen as she sweeps them over his face, noticing the blood. “Oh, Derek,” she breathes, the words heavy with disappointment, “What did you do?” But she’s already telling them to go into the dining room, even as she’s heading back down the hallway. Cora deposits Derek in a chair and sits across from him, both of them sitting there quietly when Laura returns with her first aid kit. She stands at the head of the table and looks over at Cora first. “You should ice that lip before it swells any more. There’s a bag of peas in the freezer.” Cora nods and leaves without a word.

Laura turns to Derek, sizes up the damage, takes the seat next to him and tells him to turn toward her. He does and she starts to clean his cut. He hisses at the sting of antiseptic. She’s looking at his forehead, examining the cut. “What did it?”

“Beer bottle.”

Her hand is poised in the air, reaching toward his face, when she stills. “A bar fight. Really?” She heaves a sigh. “You’re lucky the cut wasn’t just a little deeper, or you’d need stitches. But then again, that’s what you get for beating people up in bars.” She presses the gauze to his skin too hard, and it hurts, but he doesn’t say anything. She tapes the gauze in place before she leans back, crossing her arms. “What was it this time, Derek?—What set you off? Did someone accidentally touch you again? I thought we worked through this.” She shakes her head at him. “Do I have to call Doctor Morell again?”

Cora chooses that moment to walk back into the room, bearing two bags of peas, one pressed to her own face, and one held out to Derek. She moves the bag away from her mouth enough to glare at Laura and say, “Laura, you don’t know shit, so just please, shut the fuck up. The bastard hit me and Derek defended me. He didn’t have a fucking relapse or whatever the hell you’re thinking. He was just being a good brother.”

Cora walks over and presses the bag to Derek’s head. The cold stings for a second before it starts to soothe the ache. Laura’s looking between them with an expression on her face that Derek doesn’t even try to decipher in his still drunk, but quickly sobering state. “I see.” The words are short and clipped and she stands, packing up the first aid kit and closing it. She leaves the room without another glance at them and Derek is glad.

Cora sighs, “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” There’s less stumbling on the way to his bedroom, and Derek is glad for it, his head already starting to throb from too much alcohol and the laceration. Derek immediately goes over to his bed, discovering what will probably amount to quite a few bruises from the man’s punches when he sits on the edge. He doesn’t even bother changing his clothes, just clicks on his lamp and grabs for his spare pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He hasn’t even notice that Cora’s still in the room until he feels the bed shift, too busy taking drags and breathing in the nicotine. He lets out the stream of smoke through his nose before he stubs out his mostly gone cigarette.

Cora’s still there at the foot of the bed, looking at him, pressing the frozen vegetables to her face. Derek feels a sudden wave of guilt. He never wanted this to happen, never, ever wanted any of this to touch her. He’s tried so hard to keep her out of everything, to keep her safe from all of the darkness in his life, but it always finds a way to seep in, like he ruins everything he touches, everything he cares about. It brings back old feelings, old voices in his head, rumbling around in his consciousness, shoved as far back into his mind as he can get them, but not forgotten—always there, lurking, waiting for moments like this to come out again. It’s the same fear, the same drive that made him bear the brunt of Peter’s abuse—just trying so hard to keep his sisters safe from the same torment he had to endure.

He comes back when his stomach rolls, but he doesn’t throw up, thankfully. He realizes Cora is still looking at him and he doesn’t know what she’s still doing there, but he has a sinking suspicion. It’s confirmed when she starts to talk. “Derek,” her voice is soft, “that guy at the bar…what did he mean?”

Derek swallows hard, looking away from her. “What did he mean, what?”

A flash of hurt crosses her face. “Are you gonna make me ask you?” He doesn’t say anything and she sighs. “What did he mean about people paying you for sex?”

He adjusts his bag of peas against his head and shrugs noncommittally, even though everything inside of him is screaming at him to run away. “He was mistaken.”

She throws her bag of peas at him and it hits him square in the stomach, where he’d taken quite a few punches. He hisses out a “what the fuck?” even as she pins him with a dark look.

“Don’t lie to me, Derek. You promised you’d never lie to me.”

He ducks his head, ashamed. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Yes you did.”

He lifts his head to look at her. There’s a little bit of blood on the shoulder of her blouse and he thinks it must be his. “You’re right. I did, and I’m sorry about it. I just really don’t want to talk about this. Please, can we not talk about this?”

He hears the desperation in his own voice, feels the nearly manic edge to it, but Cora’s shaking her head. “We have to talk about it. Derek, are you really letting people fuck you for money?”

Her voice is void of inflection and he hates that he can’t tell from her words how she’s feeling. Normally, Derek can read her like an open book, but right now he feels like he’s walking on egg shells. “Not—not all the time.”

She shoots up from his bed, her arms flying through the air. “Not all the time?” It almost comes out as a yell and Derek watches as she visibly gets control of herself. “Not all the time? What the fuck does that even mean? So, you _sometimes_ sell yourself for money? Like that’s supposed to make it any better?”

He’s gaping at her, trying—and failing—to remember the last time he’s seen her so worked up over anything. “I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

All at once, it’s like the fight goes out of her and she sinks back onto Derek’s bed, sitting closer to him. She reaches over and retrieves her bag of peas from where they’ve fallen beside him. “I don’t want you to say anything, Derek. But this—what you’re doing—you can’t keep doing it.” She’s looking at him with so much concern that he feels it in his chest. “Promise me. _Promise_ me you’ll think about stopping. Please?” Her brown eyes well up with tears and she’s leaning over pull him into a hug. He hears her sniffle against his shoulder and hates that he’s the reason she’s crying. “You said you were okay, but this isn’t okay, Derek.” Her breath hitches, “Nothing about this is okay,” and then she’s all out sobbing against his shirt.

He tries his best to make soothing noises and pats her back, his frozen peas falling to the floor. “I’m sorry, Cora. I’m so sorry.”

She pulls back from the hug, grasping at his shirt, her eyes watery and cheeks tear-stained. “I-I need you to be okay. I can’t—” She lets out another sob, “I can’t w-watch you fall apart again.” She swallows so loud Derek can hear it before she’s letting him go and wiping at her face. “You were always your own worst enemy, Derek.” The words sound hollow, tinny, like she’s cried out all of her emotions.

She gets up from his bed, taking her makeshift ice pack with her as she leaves the room.

 

~


	4. Four

Stiles knows he really shouldn’t be surprised—and definitely shouldn’t feel this weird ache in his chest that’s almost like _hurt_ —by Derek avoiding him at every turn. It’s irrational and stupid and it’s only been like a week and Stiles should just let it _go_ , but there’s just something about tall, dark, and asshole that apparently does it for him, or something.

So, that’s how Stiles finds himself coming into the studio after Derek’s class on Tuesday, intent on maybe actually trying to talk to him about the kiss—but then he sees Derek’s face; the already yellowing bruises along his cheek, the scabbed over cut on his forehead that’s an angry red against his skin.

“Holy. Derek, what happened to you?” Derek knows he’s there—Stiles knows Derek knows he’s there—but the other man stubbornly refuses to look at him or acknowledge him in any way, just keeps packing up his bag. Stiles lets out a weary sigh. “Really? You’re gonna pretend I’m not even here right now? That’s super fucking mature.”

Derek throws a glare his way, stilling with his hand poised on the strap of his bag. “What do you want, Stiles?”

Derek sounds like he could give a shit less about what Stiles wants. It makes something in Stiles’ chest twist in an unpleasant way. “I, uh, I just—you got hurt.” He says it like something between a question and an accusation.

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Your powers of observation are unparalleled.”

“No, I meant—” he stops to run a hair through his hair, “Are you okay? That cut looks pretty nasty.” Stiles isn’t aware that he’s reaching out toward Derek—to gently touch his forehead—until Derek suddenly takes an unsteady step backwards.

“Don’t touch me,” instead of spitting the words, they are full of some kind of desperation that Stiles can’t decipher. He’s got a look on his face that reminds Stiles of a trapped animal—afraid, vulnerable, a little manic. Derek drops his bag and puts his hands out defensively, stepping back, even though Stiles is standing in the same spot, arm still outstretched, mouth slightly open.

Stiles slowly drops his hand and tries to make himself look as unthreatening as possible. “I’m sorry.” The words are soft, hesitant, and Stiles feels like the worst kind of shit when Derek’s expression doesn’t clear right away. If anything, his body goes even tenser, hands drawing into fists, and Stiles has a sinking suspicion that he may be punched again. Derek’s looking unseeingly toward Stiles, like a part of him isn’t really in the same room with Stiles, like he’s seeing someone else, like his mind is elsewhere. Stiles wets his suddenly dry lips. “Derek? Derek, h-hey man, it’s just me, Stiles. You know me. Derek, you’re at the dance studio, remember? Where you teach classes and I always somehow end up doing or saying the worst thing possible. But, uh, I’m not gonna touch you, Derek. I’m sorry. I won’t touch you, I promise.” He bites his lip, suddenly unsure about exactly what’s going on or what he should do.

But then Derek starts to blink, his eyes focusing, losing their glazed-over, far-away look, until Derek lets out a long breath, his shoulders starting to sag. Little by little, he drops his hands, until he’s just standing there, looking more exhausted than Stiles has ever seen someone look before. Neither speaks for a long time, until Stiles manages to make his dry mouth start to work again. “Are—are you okay, man?”

Derek’s gaze flick to him from where he’s been purposefully staring at the wall, his eyes softening for a moment, before he turns away. “Fine.” The word is shaky and belies his assurance. He lifts a hand to run it over his face but his fingers are trembling badly enough that Stiles can see from where he’s standing. Derek closes his fingers into a fist, his shoulders tensing again when he turns back to Stiles, eyes back to their cold, hard, half-glare. “Is there a reason you’re still here? Or are you waiting for me to make an even bigger fool of myself so you can laugh at me some more?”

There it is—yet another flash of that same hurt that Derek keeps managing to make rise up in Stiles’ chest. “No one’s laughing here, asshole.” He snaps, the words bitter, tasting sour on his tongue. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, but obviously you’re fucking _dandy_ if that little freak out was anything to go by.” Derek pales at Stiles’ words, taking a step back, like he’s about to flee the room again.  All of the fight goes out of Stiles and he raises his hands in a surrender gesture. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “God, you’re so irritating!” Stiles turns away with a frantic motion of his hands, heading back toward the studio door, but then he rounds back, stalking back across to Derek, feeling long-forgotten anger flaring up inside of him. “No, you know what; you don’t get to keep being a dick to me. I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, Hale. I don’t know what you’re hang-ups are, but I’m _not_ sorry you kissed me.” Derek is looking at him a little wide-eyed, mouth hanging faintly open. “It wasn’t a mistake, and even if you think it was, it sure as hell doesn’t give you the right to keep getting angry at me for something _you_ instigated.” Stiles may or may not actually be seething, less than a foot away from Derek, who still looks like he has no idea what to make of anything Stiles says. Stiles lets out a huff—loud and angry—before he’s turning once again toward the door.

This time, Derek is the one to stop him, setting a gentle hand on Stiles’ shoulder and turning him to face him. He’s looking at Stiles with his soft eyes again and Stiles doesn’t know how much more of this whiplash he can take. But then Derek opens his mouth to speak, “Stiles…” He draws his eyebrows together and purses his lips, dropping the weight of his hand—solid and warm—from Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m—Look, I—We should give each other some space for a little while.” Stiles opens his mouth, retort already on the tip of his tongue, but Derek cuts him off. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be blaming you for something I did—” His eyes trail down to Stiles’ mouth for a fleeting moment and it makes Stiles _want_ —want like he’s never wanted anything before. It would be so easy to just close the distance between their mouths, press his lips to Derek’s… “But it was a mistake, and it can’t happen again. And if—if I’m going to keep working here, I need you to give me some space, okay? I don’t—” he steadfastly looks away from Stiles, his jaw tightening. “I don’t want you around me for a while.”

Just like that, Stiles feels himself shut down, the irrational hurt tearing through him before he has a chance to stop it. He wants to open his mouth and say _Fuck you, Derek_ , to lash out and make Derek hurt the way that he’s hurting, but instead he simply turns on his heel, walking out of the studio once and for all.

 

~

 

Derek is exhausted. He hasn’t slept more than a handful of hours in the last few days. If he manages to get to sleep at all, he’s plagued by nightmares of things he’s spent years trying to forget. He knows he looks like crap, and he feels like crap to match. He doesn’t need the concerned eyes of the guys at the club to know that the bags under his eyes look like bruises, that his dancing yesterday had been off—lackluster and lethargic—but he was just so worn out from teaching at the studio and here at the club. Plus, he’d taken an extra shift on Wednesday, so he’s danced at _Chaos_ every night since.

But today is Sunday, and tomorrow will be one of his few, blissful days off—no studio, no club—and as long as he doesn’t see Laura or Deuc, it should be a good day. He has to make it through today, though, and since he’s performing last, it’s going to be a long night. To make it worse, Derek can’t get warm; it’s like there’s a chill in his bones that won’t go away. So, he’s huddled up in the back room, costume on with sweatpants and a sweatshirt pulled on over. Technically, it’s against club policy to still be in street clothes when the performances start, but Derek doesn’t give a flying fuck. He wants nothing more than to go home and curl up in his bed, even though he’ll be waiting for a sleep that he knows will never come.

Danny comes into the back room with a flourish, setting down his red bow and arrow before he reaches for a towel, wiping at the sweat dripping down over his skin. Boyd’s already left and they hear the booming of the speakers announce him to the crowd. Derek sinks further into the cold metal folding chair he’s sitting on. He’s watching Danny mindlessly pull out money from his red thong. He doesn’t even realize Isaac is sitting next to him until he starts to talk to Derek.

“Hey, man. Um, don’t you think you should maybe get ready? Harris is on alert tonight, extra douchey. Apparently there’s gonna be someone coming by to evaluate the club soon, and it’s supposed to be like a surprise thing, so he wants all of us to be on our best behavior and follow the regulations.” Isaac’s words sound sincere, but there’s a hint of something a lot like an undercut there as well.

It makes Derek tense, not liking the way Isaac is not-saying whatever it is he wants to say. “And that’s my problem, why?” Derek turns his head and looks at Isaac, giving him a cold look—almost as cold as Derek feels.

Isaac swallows hard enough that Derek sees his Adam’s apple bob. “Well, because if one of us were to get in trouble, Harris would take it out on all of us.”

The other man probably doesn’t mean anything by it, but Derek can’t hold back the anger that flares to life inside of him at feeling threatened. He rockets to his feet, turning to loom over Isaac, who’s sitting in the chair in his golden yellow costume, glitter all over one half of his body, the flecks brightening his blue eyes as he stares up at Derek, a little afraid. “If you have something to say to me, Isaac,” Derek seethes, fists clenching, “just fucking say it. Stop dancing around it and spit it out, or get out of my face with your bullshit.”

Isaac opens and closes his mouth a few times before he tentatively gets to his feet. He’s taller than Derek, but he doesn’t try to use his height to loom like Derek has been. “Derek, man. I’m not trying to say anything. You should just get ready, do some stretches or something. I’ll do them with you, if you want.”

But Derek doesn’t want to. He just wants sleep and to forget the way that Stiles had looked when Derek told him to stay away. Stiles had tried so hard to not show his emotions, but Derek had seen it—the flash of hurt that was so much worse than the anger. Anger, he could deal with; he knew anger like an old friend. But hurt—he’s hurt too many people in his life already, and he doesn’t want that crestfallen look in Stiles’ pretty eyes to be because of him. But it is—it’s always because of him, and it makes him so angry—angry at himself, because he can’t do anything to stop it. It’s better to hurt him now, since Derek knows that it’s inevitable either way.

Derek snorts derisively at Isaac. “Don’t tell me what to do, Isaac. In case you didn’t notice—we aren’t friends. We work together and that’s it. So stop pretending like you care about me when you’re only trying to cover your own ass so you don’t get in trouble.”

But then he sees it—that same flash of hurt across Isaac’s face and he feels a stab of shame in his stomach. The man’s face crumples. “You don’t know shit, asshole.” And then he’s leaving the room, probably going out to the side stage since Boyd will be done soon. Derek tries not to feel like a terrible person, but fails. The fight goes out of him suddenly and he drops to the chair once again, feeling somehow more tired than he did before he yelled at Isaac.

He puts his head in his hands, groaning at himself and the oncoming headache he already feels starting at his temples. A hand on his shoulder startles him, makes his heart roll over in his chest, until he sees that the hand is attached to Danny and he’s standing there in front of Derek in jeans and a t-shirt. “Jesus fuck, Danny, you scared the shit out of me!” He’s more upset with himself for reacting than he is with Danny, so he doesn’t mind the small grin that quirks up Danny’s lips.

“Well, it’s the least you deserve for treating Isaac that way. I’m not sorry.” He sighs and pulls the folding chair from beside Derek around until they’re facing each other before he sits down. Their knees are practically touching, Danny is so close. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Derek a long look. “How long have we known each other now?—three years or so, right?—and in that time, I’ve known you to be a lot of different things—a dick, an asshole, a sarcastic bastard, a little fucked up, surprisingly funny, and smart—but never cruel.” He leans forward, “but what you just did right there, to Isaac, that was cruel. That was crossing a line I’ve never known you to cross.” The words are soft and not at all the kind of rebuke Derek was expecting. “At least, I haven’t known you to cross it since the first time we met.”

Derek flushes a little at that, old embarrassment flaring up inside him. “I thought we promised never to talk about that.”

Danny lets out a laugh. “Yeah, well.” His face goes back to being serious. “Derek, you’re starting to act the same way you did back then, and I’m worried about you.” He lifts a hand, even as Derek opens his mouth. “Yeah, you can say all you want that nothing’s wrong, but I _know_ you, dude. You pretend that nothing gets to you, try so hard to convince yourself that you don’t care, that nothing can touch you because you’re _Derek fucking Hale_ , and then you go and do shit like this—taking things out on people who have done nothing to deserve your anger, because you’re so afraid of people caring about you that you’ll push everyone away before they have a chance to get close just to prove it to yourself that you can’t rely on anyone..” Danny takes a deep breath. “Well, fuck that!” Danny’s words are harsh in the quiet room, angrier than he’s ever heard the man. It startles Derek into sitting up straighter, eyes rapt to him. “Fuck all of that. Now spill. Why do you look like shit and why are you yelling at your friends—because that’s what Isaac _is_ , you moron. You’re friend. And _I’m_ also your friend, too, in case you forgot.”

Danny knocks his knees into Derek’s and gives him a small smile. Derek tries to return it, but knows it probably looks more like a grimace. “I’m sorry, Danny. I don’t know why you put up with me.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you either, Hale.”

Derek rubs at the nape of his neck, letting out a long sigh. “I haven’t been sleeping well.” He bites his lip, deciding if he should tell Danny or not about Stiles, but there’s a part of him that’s forgotten just how good it feels to talk to his friend, so he goes for broke. “There’s also…a guy.”

He leaves it at that, but it’s more than enough to pique Danny’s interest. “Whoa. Wait, wait, wait. You met someone?” Derek can tell that Danny is trying to dampen his excitement—but he’s not doing a very good job, his dimples flaring to life and his eyes crinkling at the edges.

Derek shrugs. “Yeah. I guess. He works for that studio I’m teaching classes at.”

The other man nods. “ _Little_ _Light_.” His eyes narrow. “Wait. There’s only two guys that work there—” Danny’s eyes widen almost comically. “Oh my god—is it _Scott_?—is that why you were being such a tool to Isaac? Do you have a thing for his boyfriend, because that’s super shitty, even for you, Der—”

“What?” He all but yells and then cringes at himself for his reaction, looking around the room to see if anyone heard, even though he knows Danny and he are still alone. “No. Of course I don’t like Scott. Jesus, what do you take me for? God, I like Stiles.” He shakes his head a little desperately. “But it doesn’t matter, because I fucked things up anyway. There’s a good chance he hates me now.” Derek can’t stop the words from sounding a little petulant and cringes at them.

Danny makes a noncommittal sound, eyeing Derek suspiciously. “Stiles.” He says the name like he’s trying it out for size. “That’s the guy you punched, right?” Derek throws a glare at Danny, but it’s half-hearted at best. Danny just gives him a shit-eating grin. “Isn’t he also the one that tutors Isaac on his dancing?” Derek makes a noise in the affirmative. “You know, Isaac’s really shown some improvement the last couple weeks. Stiles must be pretty good at what he does to have results that fast.”

Derek leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I guess.”

The other man snorts. “You guess? Try to reign in your pretentiousness, okay, not everyone got to go to Juilliard, Derek.”

He shoots Danny an unimpressed look. “It’s not that. It’s just—” He sighs. “Why bother? I’ve already ruined any chance with him.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Derek smiles weakly at him. “Not really.”

Danny nods. “Well, do you think whatever you did is enough to make it completely unsalvageable?”

Leave it up to Danny to be the logical, level headed one. As much as Derek doesn’t want to talk about how much of a monumental ass he was to Stiles, he finds himself opening his mouth anyway. “I kissed him and then freaked out and left. Then when he came to talk to me to tell me that he likes me—at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what he was getting at—I told him to leave me alone and now he’s pissed at me. So yeah, I think there’s a good chance it’s unsalvageable.” He groans, once again putting his head in his hands. “You didn’t see his _face_ , man. He looked so fucking sad. All because of me.”

“Okay,” Danny says, slapping Derek softly on the back of the head, making Derek look up at him, “stop the self-depreciating bullshit for a sec. Why did you tell him to leave you alone if you like him so much that you kissed him—especially if he maybe feels the same way?”

Danny sounds genuinely confused and it makes Derek feel even worse. “I don’t _know_. I just—” he lets out a long breath, “I keep remembering what happened at Juilliard.” Derek swallows hard. “He’s the first person I’ve liked since then, Danny. And I—I don’t know what to do. I have no fucking clue.”

Danny’s hand is warm on Derek’s knee when Danny sets it there, his lips twisting into a grimace of sympathy. “I’m sorry you keep thinking about it. But this is good—it’s a good step for you. Have you talked to Doctor Deaton at all about it?”

Derek vehemently shakes his head. “No. No way. Not yet.”

Danny pats Derek’s knee once before he removes his hand. “Okay. Well, I’m not gonna push you to. But, Derek, just remember we’re your friends, okay?” Derek can’t look away from Danny’s sincere dark eyes. He nods again and it seems to be enough for the other man. Danny stands. “Okay. Well, now you should really get out of those clothes. Isaac’s set is almost done. And if you’re lucky, you can catch him on your way out and apologize.”

Derek makes a sound of protest, but he gets to his feet nonetheless.

 

~

 

Stiles oversleeps and shows up late to his class on Thursday. Well. Okay, so maybe overslept is an understatement. The massive, horrible, gut-wrenching hangover might’ve had something to do with his being late, and he may or may not still be marginally drunk, but he’s trying not to dwell on that. It doesn’t excuse his behavior, though, the false concern of his students souring his already bad mood, leaving Stiles barely resisting the urge to snap at anyone who talks too loud or asks too many questions. He knows he’s been a little rude and not as helpful to them as he normally tries to be, but honestly—he doesn’t give a fuck. He feels like shit—probably looks like shit—and he just wants to go home and sleep.

So when he calls the class to an end twenty minutes early, the students grumble, but they ultimately leave after Stiles makes the mistake of telling off the third person to come up to him and ask what was wrong, telling them to mind their own business in a way that was less than professional.

He’s managed to piss off some of his favorite clients, his head is pounding so badly it’s making him feel a little sick to his stomach, and he’s completely and utterly exhausted. So, of course, it’s no surprise that his horrible day is made worse by the appearance of Lydia coming into the studio without even bothering to knock.

She walks over to Stiles and turns to where he’s been leaning against the wall, trying to get control of his rolling stomach. “You’re supposed to fucking knock.” He says.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “The door wasn’t even closed. That policy only applies to closed doors.”

“Well, it’s rude. You should learn to respect a person’s privacy and just knock. It’s not that fucking hard, Lydia. I mean, aren’t you supposed to be a _genius_ or something? Why don’t you start acting like one and think about what you do before you do it.” The words are said with a sneer. To say he doesn’t mean to sound patronizing would be a lie, and Stiles is not a liar. Lydia looks taken aback and stops a few paces from him, her shoulders sagging, mouth agape, eyes full of something that looks remarkably like hurt. Stiles snorts, but it just makes another dull throb start at his temple. “What?—did I offend you? _The_ Lydia Martin getting upset because of little ol’ me? What a day! This is something to write home about, I just know it.”

Lydia’s eyebrows draw together and she reaches up to tuck a piece of strawberry-blond hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture Stiles hasn’t seen her do in years. She frowns at him. “Stiles…is something wrong?”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “No. Yeah, I’m great. My life is _a-fucking-mazing_. What gave you that idea?”

She takes a deep breath—her chest rising and falling—before she takes a step toward him. “Stiles,” she’s lifting her hand toward him, “have you been drinking again?” The words are tentative but full of censure, like she’s talking to a disobedient child.

And Stiles _hates_ that more than anything else that’s happened so far today. She has no right to judge him for his actions, has no right to look at him like he’s fucked up _yet again_. “You know what—fuck you, Lydia. You’re not my goddamned mother, so you don’t get to say _shit_ to me.”

She drops her hand almost instantly back to her side. Stiles watches a confusing mix of emotions flit across her face, finding a sick satisfaction when her face finally falls and her eyes start to water. _Lydia Martin, crying over him._ It was a dream once, but now it just makes the hollow parts in his chest echo miserably. She turns away from him. “Screw you, Stiles. Just—just because you’re having a bad day and decided alcohol would be your cure-all doesn’t give you the right to take it out on other people.” She turns back, her green eyes blazing, bottom lip trembling before she catches it between her teeth to secure it for a moment. “And, you know what? Go fuck yourself. What gives you the right to talk to me like that? You think because you know just what to say to hurt me that it will make you feel better about yourself?” She wipes angrily at a tear on her face, struggling with her composure for a few moments, glaring at him while trying to blink back the tears, but eventually another one leaks out. “Well, congratulations.”

She’s making small sounds now, sniffling, trying desperately to wipe away all the tears treading down her cheeks, ruining her perfectly made-up face. A hot spike of something shoots low in his stomach—it feels a lot like shame, old and bitter, and makes him hate her a little more for bringing the old feelings to the surface. He’s irrationally angry, desperately happy to not be alone in his misery anymore, even though he’s the one responsible for her being hurt. There’s a part of his brain that thinks he should apologize, should just tell her about the bad week—about Derek’s rejection—about how Stiles likes him like he’s never liked anyone before and it _terrifies_ him—and about the fact that he’s been thinking about his mom for the last few days, because next month is the anniversary, and it gets harder and harder every year, taking more out of him, like a noose around his neck, slowly suffocating him with the bitter memories until he can barely function anymore.

But he doesn’t say any of those things. Instead, he just watches as Lydia cries for a moment, still a few feet away from him. She looks up at him like she doesn’t understand how he could do this to her, and he just looks back, until finally he takes a step toward her. “If you think that I was trying to hurt you just now, Lydia, you’re wrong. Trust me when I say that if I was _trying_ to hurt you, you’d know.” He’s in her face now, using his bigger build to loom over her, a twisted smirk playing on his lips as a malicious thought pops into his head. “In fact—I’d probably do something like remind you about that one time I fucked Allison—”

He sees Lydia’s hand move in his peripheral and before he can even bring himself to react, her open palm is connecting with his cheek, resounding loudly in the empty studio. The strength behind it snaps his head to the side, cheek smarting immediately, making him blink against the sudden sting of tears.

Her loud, broken sob brings his eyes back to her. Her chest is heaving with the effort, mascara running in strong lines over the curves of her face. She’s looking at him with such utter agony and disappointment that he can’t bring himself to look away. “I _hate_ you.”

She turns on her heels and walks out of the studio, leaving him stunned and alone. The slap is helping to sober him up now, and he can’t help but listen to the small voice in his mind that is screaming at him that he’s made a terrible mistake.

 

~

 

It’s Friday night and Derek is at the club again. He’s in the back room with Isaac—who he’d managed to track down after his set on Sunday, pulling the other man into a very sweaty hug to apologize for what he’d said. Isaac had looked stricken because it was the first time Derek had hugged him, but he’d said he was forgiven as long as Derek realized that they were friends and Isaac cared about him. Derek had said as much, and it was worth it for the smile the other man had given him.

Danny is also back there with them. Boyd is out on the stage, closing the night with his last dance. It had been a good day all around. Derek’s training with Isaac and some of the other acts this morning had gone remarkably well—Isaac had blown Derek out of the water with a couple moves that he hadn’t expected from the younger man. He said he’d learned them from Stiles, and for some reason it still surprises Derek that Stiles apparently actually knows how to dance. Danny had even showed up during the practice, showing some of the other guys a few moves of his own. After the rest of the dancers—Isaac included—left, Danny had trained Derek. It was something they hadn’t done in a few weeks, something that made both of them nostalgic for when they first met and Derek first started working at the club. It was nice.

Now, they are all in the back, laughing over which of them made the most tips so far—Isaac—and just hanging out with one another. Danny’s best friend is back there, too, which is probably the only thing about tonight that Derek’s not too keen on. It’s not that there’s anything _wrong_ with Danny bringing his best friend back—because Erica comes back all the time, and Isaac’s brought Scott a few times in the last couple weeks, but it’s just that—well, no one but Danny really _likes_ Jackson at all. In fact, the rest of the guys have asked Danny on more than one occasion to stop letting him come back, but Danny just gives them all puppy eyes until they relent.

It’s not fair. The guy is the ultimate tool. Jackson usually never knows when to shut up and is constantly complaining about everything—his parents, his roommate, his car—but tonight he’s uncharacteristically demure. It’s strange enough that when Boyd finally comes back, Jackson moves from where he’d been reclining against the lockers without Boyd having to snap at him or shove him out of the way. It’s actually enough to stop Derek mid-sentence to stare at the pretty-boy, aghast.

Isaac beats him to his question. “Jackson, are you feeling okay?”

Jackson takes a seat next to Danny and glares at Isaac and Derek, crossing his arms over his chest. “Shut up, Lahey.”

“No, really,” Boyd says, reaching into his costume to pull out money, doing it in the most lewd way he can because he knows it makes Jackson uncomfortable. “Are you dying? Is there something you want to tell us? We would care if you died, man.”

“Yeah, I bet you’d just jump for joy,” Jackson murmurs darkly, making Boyd and Isaac exchange a grin.

“Jumping may be a little strong…” Boyd’s words are a little cheeky and everyone but Jackson laughs. He just sinks lower into his chair.

Erica picks that moment to walk in, going up to Boyd to give him the rest of his tips. Boyd reaches out and pulls her into a kiss. “You were pretty great out there.” She whispers, quiet enough that the rest of the guys know they shouldn’t be listening, but they do anyway.

“Hey, who won?” Danny pipes, using a cloth to wipe at some unfortunate glitter still stuck to his arms.

Erica turns, Boyd’s arms sliding around her waist to hold her to his chest. She smiles brightly at Danny before she’s turning to look at Isaac. “Sunshine’s still got it.”

Derek reaches out and punches Isaac lightly on the arm in congratulations. It’s a gesture that Derek finds himself doing more and more often—not the punching, but giving Isaac small touches to show him that he appreciates him—like a high five or a pat on the back. Derek’s never been good with words or physical contact, but he finds it easier to do what little he can to show that he cares.

It’s also a gesture that isn’t going unnoticed. He sees Danny smirk at him from the corner of his eye and Boyd lifts an eyebrow. Erica grins slyly, her red lips splitting to show teeth, but she doesn’t say anything. Unsurprisingly, it’s Jackson who ruins it. “Did I miss something? Aren’t you the one who freaks out even if someone accidentally bumps into you?” He snorts derisively. “Looks like you’re not the tough guy you pretend to be after all.”

Derek slowly crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Jackson. “Do you want to see just how tough I can be, Jackass? I’ll gladly demonstrate.”

Jackson just sneers at Derek before he looks away, not even rising to the bait. Once again, it’s enough to make everyone pause. Normally, Jackson loves getting a rise out of whoever he can, pushing them to their limits, but tonight, it’s almost like he’s losing his mean face, like it’s a mask that he doesn’t feel like keeping on any more.

Derek looks to Danny with a brow raised in question. “Seriously, is something wrong with him?”

Danny just laughs—a full, belly laugh—and claps Jackson on the shoulder, making the other man start for a moment, looking over at his best friend. Derek’s never really understood their friendship, doesn’t get what he sees in Jackson. He asked Danny once, after the first time Derek met Jackson, and Danny had said that they were the only ones who didn’t take each other’s shit. It hadn’t really made sense at the time, but now, seeing them like this, seeing Danny’s slightly questioning look and Jackson’s answering shrug, he thinks he’s starting to understand.

“No, nothing’s wrong with him. He just got laid last night, so he doesn’t hate the world as much.” He lets go of Jackson’s shoulder and grins widely at the rest of them. “He’s in _loooooove_.”

“Fuck you, Danny, I’m not in love.” Jackson’s crossing his arms again, sounding to Derek like a kid that got caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“Someone decided to sleep with your ugly ass?” Isaac asks, standing up to slip on his t-shirt. “Wait—it was a person, right?”

“Oh, ha ha, you’re so funny.” Jackson says, a little too blasé. “And she’s a real person, so fuck you.”

Erica squeals a little. “She? Oh, thank god! You know what this means now, don’t you?—” She turns so that she’s looking between Boyd and Jackson. “Double dates! You have to introduce me, pronto! I need another woman in my life or I will choke on all this testosterone, I _swear_.”

Jackson grimaces at her, while Boyd’s eyes go wide. “Erica, maybe we should give them some time—”

Erica snorts and turns back to Boyd, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Trust me, if she can handle Jackson, she can handle me.” She turns back and points a sharp fingernail in Jackson’s direction. “Two weeks. That’s all the time you get before I hunt you down.” With that, she’s walking out of the room.

At Jackson’s dumbstruck expression, Derek, Danny, and Isaac burst out laughing. It isn’t long before Boyd’s joining in and Jackson’s once again sinking down into his seat.

 

~

 

The week passes slowly, one day dragging into the next, blurring long moments into a kaleidoscope that leaves Stiles with a mild headache after his last Saturday night class. He’s exhausted, having had to cover for most of Lydia’s classes this week due to her impromptu mini-vacation—which Stiles guiltily knows is because of him. After another night of drinking and waking up with a hangover that kept him in bed all day, and two more days to completely sober up, he had tried to apologize to her, calling and texting her, then going to her and Allison’s apartment when that didn’t work. Allison answered and very nearly slammed the door in Stiles’ face. She was angry on her girlfriend’s behalf and Stiles couldn’t really blame her.

But Lydia wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t let him apologize. Stiles even went to the studio on Monday morning—sacrificing his one day off at a chance to talk to Lydia—and Kira pulled him aside when he walked in, telling him that Lydia had taken the week off, asking him if she should cancel all of Lydia’s classes. The problem with that plan was that, even though they’re doing well for themselves, they couldn’t really afford to reimburse everyone a week of the monthly fee they paid for classes. So that left only one option. Stiles took over her Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday class during the week and both of her Saturday classes. Allison—who was _seriously_ pissed at Stiles still—took her remaining class.

So, by the time nine o’clock Saturday night rolls around, Stiles is completely exhausted, having been at the studio since ten that morning. Thankfully, he was teaching Lydia’s class when Derek left, so he didn’t have to see the other man. Stiles doesn’t know how many more cold shoulders he can handle before he goes crazy. Even Scott’s heard about what a dick Stiles was to Lydia last week, so he’s been glaring at Stiles whenever they are in the same room together. Kira is just about the only one not outwardly angry at him. Stiles is glad for her. They’ve never been super close, but she’s still one of his friends, even if she is a little bit more distant with him than usual. He really can’t fault any of them, though, so he just tries to be on his best behavior, even making it a point to text Lydia that he hasn’t had a drink all week. It’s not much, but he can only apologize so many times.

He takes the subway home, sagging down in one of the open seats and closing his eyes. He just wants to spend the entirety of the next day sleeping, but he knows he should probably try to go see Lydia again. And Allison. He knows that it was a shitty thing to do—bringing Allison into a fight that she had nothing to do with—simply because he knew it was the one thing that would hurt Lydia the most. It was crossing the line—bringing up something that happened years ago, when Stiles was in a really dark place and Allison was there for him in the only way she knew how to be. It was a mistake, all of it—that night, as well as reminding Lydia of it.

It had happened before Allison and Lydia started to date, but Lydia had already been in love with Allison for a while by that point—something Stiles knew, since he was nursing his own crush on Lydia at the time—and it had devastated her, almost ending her friendship with Allison. Scott—who was still nursing his crush on Allison—had refused to speak to Stiles for two weeks after. Stiles and Allison were all but ostracized by their group of friends, until Stiles somehow managed to get Lydia to talk to Allison and Allison—unbeknownst to any of them—had apparently been in love with Lydia for almost as long as the other girl had been with her and the thought of losing her friendship over sleeping with Stiles was enough to have Allison confessing her feelings. Their relationship was the only good thing to come of the fiasco, and all of them tried desperately to forget about the unfortunate circumstances of what exactly was the catalyst for it all. And it was something they _never_ talked about.

Stiles sighs loudly and lifts himself from his seat when the subway gets to his stop. The weather is starting to warm a little bit, but the wind is enough to make him wish he grabbed his jacket this morning instead of just pulling on a sweatshirt. He makes it to his apartment building in no time at all, lethargically climbing the three flights of stairs. His legs are _killing_ him after all of the extra classes this week. He gets out his keys and unlocks the door blindly, shouldering the door open when it sticks a little bit—like it does often. He walks in, all but throwing his bag of dance equipment down and falling onto the thick carpet underfoot, sprawling out spread eagle.

He hears a snort from somewhere close by, but he has no energy left to lift his head, so instead he just moves his eyes over to the couch. Jackson is sitting there—dressed surprisingly nice in a sweater and dark jeans—a look on his face that’s a cross between embarrassment and anger—with his arm wrapped around a pretty brunette dressed equally as nice. This must be the girl that Jackson’s been seeing for the last month or so. From what he knows about Jackson, she is not his normal type, which surprises Stiles, but looks can be deceiving. She’s also the culprit of the snort, Stiles knows, because she’s still laughing.

Stiles doesn’t even have the grace to be embarrassed, so he just lifts his fingers in a mock-wave. “Yo.”

The girl smiles widely and it looks a little predatory. “Hello. You must be the roommate. I’ve heard _so_ much about you.” Her words are sickly sweet and it makes Stiles squirm a little bit. He can tell by the glance she throws back to Jackson and his flush that he probably spent quite a bit of time complaining about Stiles.

Stiles just groans. “Don’t believe everything pretty boy over there says. He’s a drama queen.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow at him. “Really? Says the guy that got home and immediately fell onto the floor.”

Stiles wrestles himself to his elbows. “I’ve worked eleven hours today. What did you do, Jackson?” Stiles takes a lot of satisfaction in Jackson looking away from him at that.

The girl leans a little more into Jackson’s side. “He was spending the day with me.” Jackson looks back at her and they exchange a small smile that suddenly makes Stiles feel like he’s intruding.

Stiles clears his throat and gets awkwardly to his feet.  He goes back over to pick up his bag before he turns back to them. “Um. Sorry to crash your date. I’m just gonna—”

The girl stands up suddenly and steps up to him. She’s smiling again at him, but she has a look like she’s assessing him. “I’m Cora.”

She sticks out her hand and Stiles stares at it for a long second before he shakes it. “Stiles. But I’m sure you knew that.”

She just nods at him and tilts her head in a way that reminds him of someone, but he’s having trouble remembering who. “Well, Stiles, did you eat yet?”

Behind her, Stiles can see Jackson glaring at him and shaking his head frantically. “Uh, no, but I’m good. I’ve got protein bars in my room—”

Cora snorts again. “You call that garbage food?” She links her arm with his and pulls him toward the kitchen. “We have plenty of leftovers from dinner. C’mon, eat something with me so I don’t have to eat alone. Jackson says he’s still full, but you and I both know that he’s just trying to keep his body index at seven percent fat.”

Jackson lets out a strangled sound at that from behind them and Stiles hears a muttered “knew I shouldn’t have told you that” that makes Cora laugh again.

Stiles is a little dumbfounded for a moment before he turns to her, stopping her in the middle of his kitchen. “Oh, I _like_ you!”

Cora flips her hair over her shoulder and levels a look at him. “You better, especially with all of Jackson’s whining about you I have to listen to.”

“Cora!” Jackson yells from the other room. It just makes the girl snicker.

“Anyway. We have some chicken fried rice left, or sushi; which do you want?” She goes to the fridge and opens it. Stiles stands there a little awkwardly, not knowing how he feels about the fact that Jackson’s girlfriend has already pretty much made herself at home in their apartment. He wonders how many times she’s been over while he’s been at the studio. “Rice,” he finally decides on.

She grabs the container and then goes to the cupboard, pulling out two bowls. She puts some of the rice in each and then puts them in the microwave. Cora turns back while the food warms. “So, Stiles, what do you do that has you sprawling out on the floor by the end of the day?”

Stiles rubs the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks heat a little. “Sorry about that. I don’t normally do that, I’m just really beat this week. I had to take on extra work because a coworker is on vacation. I, uh—I’m a dancer.” Stiles can’t help but steel himself a little when he says his profession. He knows pretty well by now that people tend to think less of anyone in the arts. A lot of people believe that art is only okay as a hobby, and he’s had more than his fair share of arguing that point. He doesn’t want to argue it with Cora—she actually seems surprisingly chill and he doesn’t want his job to get in the way of that—but he’s worked hard for where he is and he’s good at his job, so he will defend it if necessary.

Instead, Cora’s face lights up and she leans a little toward him. “Really? Man, that’s awesome! My brother is a dancer. He used to try to teach me moves all the time when I was younger, but I would always give up because it was too confusing. Apparently, I have no rhythm.”

Stiles laughs at the scowl that crosses Cora’s face. “I’m sure that’s not true. In my experience, most people can dance. It just takes practice. Plus, having a song that you’re comfortable with goes a long way in helping people get familiar with—”

Jackson pipes up from the other room. “Stiles, Cora doesn’t want to listen to all of your dance crap. No one cares.”

Cora lifts a dangerous eyebrow in her boyfriend’s direction, even though he can’t see it from where he’s still sitting on the couch. “I think I’ll make up my own mind on that, Jackson.” The words come out sounding berating and it leaves Stiles trying to quell his laughter. Oh yes, he _likes_ her. He likes anyone that doesn’t take Jackson’s shit.

The timer on the microwave beeps and Stiles gets the two bowls out while Cora grabs some silverware. They go back into the living room, Cora sitting next to a pouting Jackson, and Stiles sitting at the other end. There’s some romcom on TV and they watch it in relative silence for a little bit.

“So,” Stiles says when he finishes his food, placing the bowl down on the coffee table. “How did you two meet?”

Cora finishes her own food and sets her dish down. “School. Jackson and I are in the same grad program.”

A phone buzzes and all three of them check their pockets. Cora stands up. “Sorry! I’ve got to take this,” she says before she walks toward the front door and into the hall, closing the door behind her.

Stiles looks back to Jackson and catches the other man looking forlornly toward the door, eyes a little distant, like he’s thinking about something serious.

Stiles makes a considering sound. “You really like her, don’t you?” He asks quietly.

It seems to break Jackson of whatever he was thinking and he looks to Stiles, his gaze a little heated, but not nearly how he normally is. “Shut up, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles shifts a little, turning to face him. “I’m serious. You like her.”

Jackson crosses his arms over his chest. “So what if I do?” he asks defensively.

Stiles just tilts his head a little. “I think that’s pretty cool, man.”

Jackson looks at him for another long moment before he uncrosses his arms and looks back toward the television. “Thanks.” Stiles can barely hear him over the volume of the show, but it makes him grin a little nonetheless.

He’s still got a grin on his face when Cora comes back in.

 

~


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly encourage all of you to listen to the song [Dark Night of the Soul](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSymJl1czYs) by Philip Wesley during the dance described in this chapter!

Tuesday rolls around uneventfully. Derek sleeps late—amazingly—and only wakes up when he hears Cora banging around in the kitchen after she gets home from her classes. He blinks at the light slipping in through his shade before he gets up, reaching out for a cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, exhaling through his nose, lifting himself up, cigarette poised between his lips as he pulls on a pair of jeans.

He makes quick work of smoking down to the filter before he quells the embers into his ashtray. It’s getting full again, dirty with gray-white ash that seems to cling to everything, littered with blackened filters and half-smoked cigarettes. He stands up and walks over to his dresser, pulling on a dark blue Henley. He walks out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. Cora looks up at him from where she’s stirring something on the stove. She smiles at him, “Oh, good. You’re up. I thought you might want to eat before your class this afternoon.”

Derek grimaces a little. “I’m not really hungry.”

She turns to him with an exasperated look on her face. “Derek, you have to eat something. You hardly had anything yesterday—and don’t for a second think I didn’t see you put half your bowl of cereal in the garbage disposal—and I slaved over this stove making you food, so you’re going to eat it.”

Derek mutters something under his breath, but he complies, going to stand next to her to see what she’s making. He smells it before he sees it and he’d be lying if he said his mouth didn’t water just a bit. “Is that what I think it is?” Derek asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Cora shrugs and turns off the flame. “I knew it was probably the only way to actually get you to eat.”

She moves to get plates out of the cupboard and spoons some of her Chickpea Coconut Cashew Curry and Rice onto them. They sit at the table in silence, Derek completely absorbed in his food. He forgot how good of a cook Cora is. He’s missed this, he realizes suddenly. There was a time in his life when this was normal; when Cora would always be there, sitting with him, talking with him, knowing just what to do to make him feel better. It’s nice, that she hasn’t forgotten his favorite meal; that she still knows him well enough to know when he’s in a funk.

He looks up at her and smiles when he finishes his food. “Thank you, Cora. You didn’t have to do all this.” He waves at the empty plates in front of them.

Cora rolls her eyes at him and stands up. “Whatever. You’re doing the dishes before you go. I’ve got a date.” She smirks at him before she goes back to her bedroom.

Derek lets out a chuckle, even as he goes to the sink to clean up. It’s not long before he looks at the stove clock to see it’s nearly time for him to go. He heads back into his room, grabbing his duffel full of spare clothes and his dance shoes, before he’s calling a good-bye to his sister and leaving the apartment.

He takes the subway, opting not to walk to the studio, even though it’s starting to warm up a little bit outside. Kira greets him when he walks in and he finds himself smiling back at her. They chat for a couple minutes before Derek goes back to _Studio 5_ to get ready for his class. He’s starting them on a new dance tonight, and he thinks they’ll like it. It was something Danny had helped him a little bit on when he trained him last week, showing him some moves that Derek doesn’t do often, but that he thought his class might like.

The students start to trickle in at the top of the hour, and Derek gets right into it. It’s a more fast-paced song than what he’s taught them so far, but by the response, they seem to like it well enough. Even some of his more troubled students are picking up the moves today. Progress, Derek thinks. He only makes it a little less than halfway through the routine by the time class ends, but he’s satisfied with today’s work. Some of the patrons come up to him after to talk about this move or that, or to ask advice. Thankfully, some of the more handsy people in his class seemed to have mellowed now. He talks with them for a few minutes before it starts to become a little too much. Gracefully, he excuses himself, picking up his bag before heading out of the room. He briefly considers changing his clothes, but he’s only going home, not having to work at _Chaos_ until Thursday, so he just shrugs on his jacket over his slightly sweaty t-shirt before leaving the studio.

The sky is just starting to darken, the horizon bleeding away the sun. Derek takes a cab, watching the sky through the back window as the lights cast warm shadows over the city streets, silhouetting the buildings and people until they become nothing more than one darkening blur after another. There’s only a faint trace of red in the sky by the time he makes it back to his apartment, paying the cabbie before stepping inside his building. He offers to help Mrs. Brown with her apartment door, her arms full of grocery bags, and she thanks him profusely.

By the time Derek opens the door to his apartment, he’s thinking about eating some of the leftovers that Cora made earlier and isn’t paying attention. So when Laura suddenly appears in front of him, he frowns, stopping in his tracks. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

She’s not wearing her scrubs, but a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Her hair is down around her face, instead of pulled back into her usual style. She eyes him warily. “I tried calling you—and then you didn’t answer and I got worried, so I came home early. Derek, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

Derek rolls his eyes a little and sidesteps her to walk further into the apartment. He places his bag on the floor and shrugs off his coat, laying it over the back of the couch. “Out.” He answers, turning back to her, raising an eyebrow like he’s daring her to say something.

She lets out a huffy sigh. “Out? Really. I tried calling you for almost two hours and then you just _show up_ and all you have to say is that you’ve been _out_?”

Derek crosses his arms. He feels bad for a second that he didn’t think to check his phone when he got done with his class, but he hadn’t been expecting any calls. “Why did you call me?”

She shifts from foot to foot for a moment before she tucks her hair behind her ear. “I, uh, well I was talking to Doctor Morell about you—”

“Laura, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m _fine_.” He seethes.

She cocks her hip and gives him a long look. “Anyway, she said it might be good for you to get back into dancing.” Derek opens his mouth, but Laura keeps talking. “And yeah, I know you strip at that club you’re so fond of, but have you ever thought about dancing again, like for real?—dancing like you used to?”

Derek leans against the back of the couch, not even dignifying her question with an answer. “For the last time, Laura, I’m not a stripper. And exotic dancing _is_ real dancing—which you would know if you took your head out of your conceited ass.”

Laura’s mouth presses into a firm line. “What the fuck ever, Derek. Look, I was talking to my co-workers about your situation, asking if any of them knew any good places to dance. A couple of them go to this studio across town—”

Derek springs forward. “You were talking about me to your co-workers? What the fuck, Laura!” He can feel his body tensing, hands clenching into fists as anger floods him. “What, were you telling them my entire fucking sob story? Did you make it sound like I’m some kind of fucking _recluse_ who just has too many problems to _function_ so I need my big sister to help me out and hold my hand while I make my way back into the big bad world? Did you make it sound like my job—which I happen to _like_ , by the way—is nothing more than another way for me to victimize and objectify myself—because that’s what Doctor Morell said, and if she said it, it _must_ be fucking true!” He’s all but yelling by the end, years of frustration finally breaking out from his normally tightly lidded emotions. He sees Laura flush, her face waning, until her eyes are the only spark of color left on her pallid face. The fight goes out of Derek all at once. He drops his shoulders, closing his eyes for a moment. “Or did you not even bother to tell anyone what I actually do for a living, because you’re too embarrassed by me and what I do?”

They stand there for a long moment, at an impasse, until she lifts her hand up toward him. Derek takes a step back, not flinching this time, just not wanting her to touch him. He leans against the back of the couch, watching Laura’s fingers curl before she speaks. “Derek—that’s not true—I just—” She bites her lip before she turns to walk away. Derek tracks her movements as she goes into the dining room, grabbing her purse to dig around in it until she finds what she’s been looking for. She comes back over to him, holding out what looks like a business card of some sort. “I treated this guy a few weeks ago for a sprained wrist and it turns out that he’s part owner of that studio I was telling you about where some of the other nurses go. He was really nice. I told him that you danced, so he said if you ever decided to check out the studio, you could get a free class or something. He wrote his name on the back of the card and said just to give it to the receptionist.” Derek doesn’t move, just looks down at the plain white stationary in her hand. She sighs, exasperated, and shoves the card into his hand. “Look, I know you’re mad at me, but just take the card and check it out. What could it hurt? And the guy was a total sweetheart.”

The card is laying face-down against his palm, but somehow he knows without even having to look what will be on the other side. He tries to open his mouth, but his teeth are clenched too tightly to allow the movement. He slowly turns the card over, only to see with dread that his fear is confirmed.

_Little Light Studios_

Stiles’ name is scrawled inelegantly across the top and Derek can’t breathe.

He doesn’t say anything for a long while, just stares down at the card in his hand. His cheeks heat and his throat tightens when he finally looks back up at Laura. He feels a stab of betrayal in his chest and wonders how long she’s known. How long has he been making a fool of himself trying to keep this secret from her—because he just wanted _so desperately_ to have something in his life that was one-hundred-percent _his_ , that Laura couldn’t touch, that she couldn’t control. But he was wrong; he was played. _Did Stiles know? Has he known the whole time?_ What’s worse, _did Laura put him up to it?_

Derek feels sick. He swallows back bile and lets the card slip through his fingers. He feels weak and there’s a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He sees Laura coming toward him in his peripheral and he holds out a hand to her, gasping in a breath. “How long have you known?” The words are barely a whisper.

He looks over at Laura, wanting—needing—to see the truth for himself on her face. But her eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Derek, are you okay? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

“How long have you known?” He asks again, through gritted teeth.

She shakes her head a little, holding her hands up. “What are you talking about? How long have I known what?”

Derek looks away from her, bringing his hands up to cradle his face. His skin feels too-warm under his fingertips. “Do you really expect me to believe that you didn’t know this is where I’m teaching? That you just happened to get this card from someone at work and it just happens to be Stiles’ card? Yeah fucking right, Laura. I’m not an idiot.” He snorts, before another thought crosses his mind and he looks sharply over at her. He ignores her slightly flabbergasted expression. “Wait.” He says slowly. “Laura, what did you tell him about me? Laura,” he says a little desperately, “what did you say? Oh God. Oh my god.” He turns away, grabbing once more for his coat, slipping it on before he picks up his bag.

He can’t _breathe_ here right now.

“You teach?” He almost misses the words, they are so quiet. He turns back, blindly, to see Laura standing in the same spot, looking at him, her big eyes brimming with tears and a watery smile on her face that is so full of _hope_ that it kills something inside of him. He just turns away from her and all but runs out of the apartment, already knowing where he’ll end up before he even hits the street.

 

~

 

Stiles is the last one in the studio, it being empty of both employees and patrons. It is well after everyone else has gone home, Kira having said goodbye to him with a wave at a little after five. Stiles just got done teaching the last class of the night, it having gone much better than the disaster that was last week. He’d talked to a few people after and eventually seen everyone out.

He spares a glance at the clock in the studio and sees it’s nearly nine. He thinks about going home, about crawling into his bed, pulling the covers over himself and trying to smother himself with a pillow, but he knows that Cora is going to be there with Jackson, the other man having made it a point to tell Stiles she would be staying the night, and as much as Stiles likes her, he doesn’t want to be around people right now, doesn’t want to have to face anyone and fake a conversation like there’s nothing wrong with him.

He picks his bag up from the floor and walks out, turning down the hall and making his way to _Studio 2_. The hallway is dark, the lights having automatically dimmed like they do at the same time every day. The studio is lit only by the city lights filtering in through the large windows at the opposite side. Stiles only turns one light on, giving the room a soft warm glow, making the brick wall look more like a candle-lit home than a cold, professional, empty room.

He walks along the perimeter of the studio, moves to trail his fingers over the off-center wooden beam. He walks over to the stereo and pulls out his phone, going through the songs, the need to dance thrumming through his blood, until he sees it, and his finger freezes above the name. The song starts to play after he plugs his phone in, quiet in the even quieter room.

For a long moment, he just closes his eyes, listens to the too-sweet sound of the piano keys tearing him apart. He tries not to think about the song or of how it reminds him so viscerally of his mother that he thinks he can almost feel her fingers grazing his skin, like a breeze that makes him shiver, when certain notes strike.

The notes get heavier, all but suffocating him until he’s kicking off his shoes, shrugging out of his sweatshirt, moving into the center of the room.  His eyes close on a heavy exhale, his muscles straining, yelling at him to do something. But he waits. He waits for an unbearable moment, lets the music deepen.

He takes a deep, calming breath, and then he moves.

He moves like his life depends on it, like he can work himself out of his own skin. He dances like it can be his salvation, like it can save him from the thoughts swirling around in his mind. He spins and stretches and pushes himself, again and again, because somehow he realizes that dancing—this, right here, right now—is the only thing he’s got left in the world. He sways to the rhythm, makes his own, limbs lifting and cresting, until his heart starts to beat faster and the sound of blood rushing in his ears is almost enough to eclipse the haunting melody.

His movements become more forceful, almost violent in their execution. But then they change with the song, until his limbs are moving languidly, lengthening through the heavy air. He spins until he has to close his eyes, the lower notes seeming to reverberate in his throat until he can’t breathe while the higher ones inspire the phantom touch of his mother—until he feels like he’s falling apart—until the only thing left keeping him together is the movement of his body, the way his feet press into the floor before a jump, the way his arms cut through the stale studio air, the way he gives himself over completely to the dance.

The music slows for a moment, before it comes back, lighter, more heartbreaking than before, and Stiles feels it into his soul. His heart aches, unbidden memories flooding his mind of soft eyes and strong smiles; of his parents, safe and happy. It kills something inside of him like remembering always does; tearing the gaping wound in his heart wider until he feels like he’ll be buried inside of it, like he’ll die choking on the emptiness where he used to be whole.

It still hurts—always hurts—he aches when he thinks about it, about just how alone he is. It’s even worse now, because he screwed things up with everyone he cares about—Lydia, Allison, Scott, Derek—and no one is there for him when he needs them, like no one cares that he feels like he’ll die from the weight of the memories and the crushing sadness. No one’s there to see his legs tremble when he spins, or his fingers shake when he reaches into the air. No one is there to hear him gasp for air when he starts to feel like he’s suffocating. No one is there to see the tears that start to fall when he’s pushed his mind and body as far as they can go.

The only constant in his life is this—dancing. It’s the only thing that matters anymore. Maybe it was the only thing that ever really mattered. It’s the only thing that helps, that reminds him he’s good at something, that he’s worth something. It’s the only thing that he can turn to, when everything else falls apart. Dancing is everything to Stiles—it’s everything he ever wanted.

He gets lost in the melody once more, letting the music drown out the rest of his thoughts for an infinite moment, one that Stiles wishes will never end. He jumps, and for a brief moment, he feels invincible, suspended in the air like a creature that belongs there. But then the song ends, and Stiles feels it in his chest, like the string that’s been holding him up is severed—like the song was his lifeline and now that it’s over, he’s once again left with nothing more than an empty studio.

 

~

 

The walk to the studio is a blur. Derek walks until his legs burn and the cold air starts to make his lungs ache. It does nothing to stop the hurt and betrayal, does nothing to ease the mortification he feels at his reaction to Laura, does nothing to stop the shame at seeing his sister’s eyes and the damning hope in them that’s eating away at his insides. He walks faster, turning onto the block of the studio, not caring that it’s late and he really shouldn’t be here.

The doors lead into the darkened studio space when he opens them and goes inside, but he knows that someone is still here because the place isn’t locked up yet. He still feels a low level of panic simmering under his skin, but it’s quickly being replaced by something lighter, hotter, like the lick of anger. He doesn’t know why he came here, still, but it feels right to be walking down the dim hallways, looking for something he can’t put a name to.

He’s by _Studio 4_ when the music stars. It’s loud, or maybe the rest of the building is too quiet. The song is all beautiful soft notes and Derek finds himself being drawn toward the sound, like it’s a compulsion. He’s approaching _Studio 2_ when he starts to hear movement from inside. The door is ajar enough for Derek to look in without having to open it further when he gets close enough.

It’s dark, the lights on the lowest setting, and Derek can barely make out anything in the room at first—but then he sees movement, just a flash of a pale foot extended, cutting through the air and catching in the city light from outside streaming in through the windows. It takes another second before he can see the rest of the body, at first nothing more than a silhouette dancing in the dark. But then he recognizes the way the hands move, even before his eyes travel up to the face and he sees Stiles, dancing like Derek has never seen him dance before.

He’s all elegant, long limbs, poised and moving with such grace that it steals Derek’s breath from his lungs. The dance is relentless, Stiles going from one move into the next seamlessly, without hesitation. He dances to the song like he can breathe life into it with his movements, like somehow it can become something more than simply a melody filtering through the air, like it can grow a soul and live inside of Stiles.

All Derek can do is stare, transfixed, his eyes tracking the movement of arms and legs and hips, catching the play of light on Stiles cheek, on his jaw, on the long, pale column of his throat when he throws his head back. Derek wants to take his eyes away, but then the music starts to grow into something deeper and Stiles starts to dance harder, like everything before this had just been a small wave, but now he’s the tsunami that is dragging Derek under and drowning him in the intensity. Derek tries to look away, but his eyes catch on the mirrors on the opposite wall and all he can see is Stiles’ reflection, his face not like it should be from this angle, his body looking harsher as the dance grows more aggressive.

Derek’s eyes flit back to the true form when he hears a gasp eclipse the song for a moment. Stiles’ chest is heaving and his eyes are closed tightly, but his movements never falter as he twirls and jumps and stretches, toes and fingers taut with execution, shaking with the effort.

He dances like a ghost, like he can’t possibly be real, and it makes Derek shiver. The movements are a haunting echo to the song, a strange shadow to the tender notes that makes Derek’s heart beat a little faster, makes him take an unbidden step further into the doorway, still cloaked in shadow. He feels the song in his chest, like strings are being pulled, compelling him further into the room, to dance alongside Stiles while he pours his heart out into the almost empty space. Instead, he continues to watch, continues to listen to Stiles gasp and take heaving lungfuls of air, continues to feel his heart twist in his chest as a visceral reaction to the overwhelming performance in front of him.

Stiles jumps into the air, his body turning in a way that almost looks painful, like no human body should be able to look so twisted, yet perfect, so graceful that to Derek, Stiles looks like he’s flying, feet extended out, arms up in the air like he can soar above the skyline if he focuses hard enough. His head is thrown back, and for a brief second, his face shines in the light like there are tears on his cheeks, but then the ghost of the thought is gone and Derek is being pulled under.

He gets lost in the space between Stiles’ feet and the floor, in the beauty of the moment forever suspended in the air, never-ending, never dying, being immortalized in his mind like a living picture, like the bit of space between the two is something that should never be broken, like once Stiles’ feet touch the ground, nothing can ever be the same again, like whatever spell the dance has managed to cast over him will be broken by the coalescence of flesh and wood.

Stiles lands, not with a flourish like Derek would expect, but with a last, single move, like a swan song before the music dies off into the silent room like a whisper. It feels too final, too quiet, like Derek is too broken to bear witness to the mournful look on Stiles’ face after. Stiles lifts up his hands to his face and Derek can see that they are trembling almost violently. Stiles hastily wipes at the few tear tracks on his face before he drops his hands back to his sides, like it’s far too much effort to hold them up for even a second longer, like every part of his body is simply too exhausted and drained to continue.

Derek isn’t even aware that he’s taken another step into the studio until the heel of his shoe thumps a little too loudly on the wooden floor. Stiles rounds toward him with a start, face showing a heavy mix of conflicting emotions that Derek can’t even begin to fathom, before Stiles’ eyes lock to his own and Derek feels like he’s drowning once more.

 

~

 

Stiles feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. It’s beating loudly, echoing in his throat, in his head. All he can see is Derek standing by the door to the studio, eyes locked on him, like he has a right to be there, to have watched Stiles for who knows how long, to see something so personal when _he’s_ the one that told Stiles to stay away. It’s not fair, and Stiles feels the rising anger start to overshadow his misery.

“What the fuck, Derek?” Stiles’ voice sounds raspy in the too-quiet room. “What are you doing here?” He gestures to the room around him before pointing toward the door. “You’re supposed to knock.” His words don’t have any of the edge he wants them to by the end. He sounds defeated, a little broken, and he _hates_ that, but he’s at a loss to do anything about it, still staring at Derek, wondering what he could possibly be doing there.

Derek doesn’t take his eyes off of Stiles, just drops the bag on his shoulder to the floor. It resounds with a soft thud that sounds to Stiles like an echo of his heartbeat where it’s still hammering against his ribcage. “The door was open.”

Derek says it with a shrug, like that should be the end of it, and it makes Stiles stand up straighter. He sounds cool and collected and Stiles envies him for it. “You say that like it gives you the right to just come in unannounced and uninvited.” Stiles pauses to take a breath and Derek lifts an eyebrow at him, taking yet another step closer. Stiles’ mouth goes a little dry at the way the city lights play over the cut of his cheekbones, over the dark of his stubble, over the swell of his lips when he lifts the corner of them up, like he’s laughing at Stiles for his reaction. “Well, fuck you, Derek. It doesn’t. You shouldn’t even be here. Why are you here?” Stiles shakes his head a little to clear it, but it doesn’t work. He still feels like he’s in a fog from the song and the dance.

Derek takes another step. His eyes are catching the light and they look like crystals, hypnotizing Stiles so he feels like he can’t move or think or breathe. “Stiles…” Derek says his name like he’s something special and Stiles closes his eyes against it—because he’s not. Derek’s made that clear, over and over again. Derek doesn’t want him; Stiles is fooling himself.

He shakes his head again almost violently, like he can shake away the thoughts, holding out a hand when Derek starts closing the distance between them once more. “No, get out.”

Derek stops, finally, barely more than a foot away from Stiles. “You don’t really want me to leave.”

The words are soft, quiet, and they make Stiles close his eyes once more in defeat, all of the fight left in him going out with an exhale. Derek takes one more step, until Stiles can feel the heat of his body. He doesn’t open his eyes, even when he feels the flutter of Derek’s fingertips on his jaw, making him shiver. “You—you told me to stay away from you.” Stiles hates the confusion lacing his words. Stiles lets his eyes flutter open, surprised at how close Derek is, his eyes boring into Stiles’ from mere inches away.

Derek licks his bottom lip and Stiles tracks the movement. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

Derek’s fingers move to cup Stiles’ jaw and Stiles feels himself relax into the touch. He brings his own arms up, one hand gripping into the material of Derek’s shirt under his jacket, the other resting on Derek’s hip. This time, it’s Stiles who closes the distance between their mouths, pressing his lips to Derek’s in something that mirrors the desperation he feels inside.

“Stiles,” Derek groans his name against his lips, like it’s painful just to speak, like it slips from his lips on its own accord, before he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. This kiss is nothing like their last one. Instead of the rough, almost violent clash of lips, this is something born of desperation, of need, and it makes Stiles’ heads swim. Stiles doesn’t move his hands for a long moment, still afraid that Derek may pull away again, but then the other man brings his hand up to twist into Stiles’ hair, pulling him closer. Stiles goes willingly, moving the hand grasping at Derek’s shirt up to smooth over his shoulder, the side of his throat, to play with the fine hairs at the nape of Derek’s neck.

Derek doesn’t so much break the kiss as move his mouth down to kiss at Stiles’ throat, to suck and lick at his skin. Stiles’ gasps, digging his fingers into the base of Derek’s skull, moving the hand on Derek’s hip under the t-shirt to drag up along his spine. “Derek,” Stiles breathes his name, pulling him closer, even as Derek’s mouth moves from his neck, to kiss over his collarbone, lips grazing up over his Adam’s apple, before their mouths meet again. “Want you,” Stiles manages to get out between kisses.

Derek pulls back a little at that, looking at Stiles in a way that makes him shudder, eyes bright and glazed, mouth bruised and shiny. Stiles bites his lip, moving his fingers against the back of Derek’s head in soothing circles. Derek lets out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, Okay,” before he’s kissing Stiles again. It’s like a switch has been flipped, because now Derek’s hands are touching him everywhere, fingers digging into his skin where he’s lifted Stiles’ shirt to get at it. Stiles pulls away from the kiss for a moment and Derek reaches for him, working with him to lift Stiles’ shirt over his head. Derek does the same for his own shirt before tossing them both somewhere on the dance floor behind them.

Stiles has seen Derek shirtless before—that first night, at the club—but there’s something different about it now. Maybe it’s the fact that Stiles _knows_ Derek, that he’s not just an anonymous body, and that he can touch him this time, instead of simply watching the way he moves. So Stiles does, he reaches out a hand and slides it down over Derek’s chest, stopping to sweep a thumb over a nipple—Derek takes in a sharp breath, but doesn’t stop him. Stiles trails his hands down, until his fingers brush the waist of Derek’s sweatpants. He only hesitates for a moment before he’s dropping to his knees and pulling at Derek’s pants.

Derek curls a hand into Stiles’ hair and Stiles looks up at him. He looks a little dazed and Stiles fights to hold back a smile, because _he did that_. “Is this okay?”

The other man doesn’t say anything, just nods. It’s all the approval Stiles needs before he’s lowering Derek’s pants and underwear. Derek is getting hard already, and Stiles takes the swollen, pink tip into his mouth, sucking at it gently, rolling it over his tongue. Derek hisses from above, the fingers in Stiles’ hair tightening for a moment.

Stiles takes his time, running his tongue up and down the quickly thickening shaft over and over again, before pressing his tongue into the slit at the head, then massaging it against the sensitive spot just below. Derek is making _sounds_ and they are driving Stiles crazy. He starts to suck in earnest, moving his hands up to hold onto the backs of Derek’s thighs as he brings him in deeper, running his hands up over the smooth skin and course hairs of Derek’s legs, sucking Derek further into his mouth until Stiles can feel Derek’s cock in his throat. He closes his eyes, focuses on breathing through his nose, before he uses the hold on Derek’s thighs to move him closer, until Stiles nose presses into the soft, dark hairs of Derek’s groin and his lips seal at the base.

“Stiles!” Derek moans his name and Stiles looks up over the long line of Derek’s body just in time to see him throw his head back. Stiles pulls off with a gasp, barely giving himself time to breathe before he licks at the head again. He deepthroats Derek’s cock a few more times, until Derek is gasping and twisting his hands into Stiles’ hair in a way that is almost too-painful, but he moans around the cock in his mouth anyway.

“Fuck,” Derek breathes, pulling out from the wet heat of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles’ jaw twinges a little when he grins up at Derek, his face flushed, sweat already beading on his forehead. Derek loosens his fingers and brings his hand around to trace the curve of Stiles’ face. “C’mere.”

Stiles slowly lifts to his feet, sighs into it when Derek brings their mouths back together for a moment. Then Derek steps away, kicking the pants that are around his knees the rest of the way off before he turns back to Stiles. Stiles already has his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his slacks and pushes them down the long line of his legs with one fluid motion. They both stand there for a long moment, naked in the dim light, eyeing each other like men dying of thirst.

Derek closes the distance between them, running his hands up and down Stiles’ back before he rests his hands on Stiles’ ass cheeks, squeezing lightly, massaging at the skin in a way that steals Stiles’ breath. He moves in to nibble at Stiles’ ear lobe and Stiles is so distracted by the warm puffs of air against his ear that he misses what Derek’s said. “I—what?”

Derek squeezes his ass again, nuzzling his nose against the skin at the hinge of Stiles’ jaw. “Do you have anything?”

Stiles feels himself still. He can’t believe how stupid he’s been. Why didn’t he think to keep a condom and some lube in his wallet like every other guy on the planet? He’s shaking his head mournfully. “I—no, I don’t. Fuck!”

Derek lets out another puff of warm air in what might’ve been a laugh. He moves his hands from Stiles’ ass up over his spine, smoothing at the ridges a little before he pulls his hands away and takes a slow step back, a grin flashing across his face in the dim room. “It’s okay. I do.”

He’s moving away before Stiles can even react, walking back to his forgotten bag. Derek squats down—a view that Stiles would _very much_ like to see in better lighting—and digs around inside of his bag for a little bit until he finds what he’s looking for with a triumphant sound. He walks back to Stiles with a small bottle of lube and a condom in his hand. Derek looks at Stiles with uncertainty for the first time all night. “How—” he licks his lip. “How do you want to do this?”

Stiles lets out a shuddering breath, reaching out to pull Derek in close once more. He captures the other man’s lips in a deep kiss that makes Stiles’ heart beat faster, leaving both of them gasping and swaying a little when they part. “I want you to fuck me.”

From this close, Stiles can see Derek’s pupils dilate, can see him shudder out a moan. “Yeah, okay.”

They go to the floor together, kneeling and trading kisses before they lie down, Stiles underneath Derek, his legs spread and Derek’s weight resting between his parted thighs. Stiles tries not to think about the cold wood floor beneath his back, or the way the brick wall is a little drafty, making him shiver. Derek’s body is warm and solid, his lips hot where they drag against his neck, his shoulder, teeth blunt when they scrape over his collarbone.

Stiles reaches for the lube in Derek’s hand, but Derek just pulls it away. “Let—let me.”

Stiles nods, spreading his legs wider when Derek shifts between them, popping the cap of the lube. He squirts some into his hand and takes his time warming it before he brings his hand down between their bodies. Stiles lifts a leg, arm wrapping around his knee to give Derek more room, spreading himself wider. Derek lets out a long breath at the sight before he brings a slick finger to circle Stiles’ hole. He doesn’t press it in, just moves around it, over it, feeling the puckered skin. Then he presses in, just the tip of a finger, and Stiles moans, suddenly needing so much more, needing everything Derek has to offer, needing it desperately. He must’ve made some sound, because Derek presses the rest of his finger inside in one smooth motion. “ _Yes_.” Stiles closes his eyes and bites his lip, immersing himself in the feeling of Derek’s finger inside of him, moving, stretching. “More. Please, Derek, more.”

Derek stills before he removes his digit. Stiles opens his eyes, watches as Derek adds more lube, slicking the pucker a little more, before he works both fingers in. Stiles swallows hard at the feel of Derek’s fingers moving inside of him, stretching him, opening him up. He feels fuller than he’s felt in a long time and he revels in it, in the feel of Derek’s digits twisting, until they slide over his prostate. Stiles gasps, but the feeling is only fleeting, Derek pulling his fingers out momentarily before adding a third. He keeps working at Stiles’ hole until Stiles is bucking his hips, trying to gain purchase, to better the angle, until Derek has to press his other hand down against his hips to get Stiles to stop his ministrations.

“Come on, Derek. Please. I’m ready. Want you.” Stiles croons, moving his free hand up and down over Derek’s arm. “Want you so much.”

Derek moans, “Fuck, Stiles,” before he’s removing his fingers and ripping open the condom wrapper. He strokes his lubed up hand over his shaft once before he pinches the tip of the condom and rolls it down over his cock. He adds more lube over the latex and then surprises Stiles by pulling him up and into Derek’s lap. Derek scoots back, until his back is resting against the beam for support. Stiles makes a sound of approval and kisses Derek again, wrapping his legs around Derek’s waist, hitching himself closer. He brings his hand up to cradle Derek’s jaw and kisses him a little more, just a chaste press of lips, before Derek pulls away, moving his hips so his cock slides along the crack of Stiles’ ass, pressing against his hole with every stroke. Stiles reaches down between their bodies, positioning Derek’s cock at his entrance, the anticipation finally becoming too much.

Their harsh breaths are the only sound in the quiet studio when Stiles finally sinks down onto Derek’s cock. Stiles throws his head back, reveling in the feeling of being filled, inch by torturous inch, of so much silky hardness stretching him further. His fingers seek purchase and he ends up with his arms around Derek’s neck, one hand sliding into his hair to grip tightly. They are both still for a long moment when Derek is finally all the way inside and Stiles can tell by the strain in Derek’s shoulders that he’s giving Stiles this, letting him set the pace. Stiles mouths at his jaw, pressing a hand against Derek’s shoulder for leverage as he finally lifts himself up. He goes slowly, loving the slick slide of Derek inside of him. Derek’s fingers dig into his hips—and then Stiles sinks down again.

They both cry out, Derek dropping his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck, moving his hands to slide up and down over Stiles’ back. Stiles keeps the rhythm going, slowly lifting up before bringing himself back down, varying between taking Derek all the way in, taking just the head, or just a couple inches. It’s a slow dance that Stiles knows is driving Derek crazy, but he keeps letting Stiles do this—lets Stiles slowly unravel him, thrust by slow thrust—inching the pleasure along until it’s humming beneath both of their skin, until the need starts to make Derek shift his hips up to meet Stiles’ own.

Derek pants against his throat, a hand having snaked up to grab Stiles’ shoulder, using it as leverage to pull Stiles down so he can grind himself into Stiles’ ass. Stiles throw his head back, staring blindly at the rafters of the ceiling, losing himself in the sensations—too much, too full, too hot, too hard—as Derek rubs himself against Stiles’ prostate over and over again, having found the perfect angle. Stiles breathes out Derek’s name and Derek bites gently at his shoulder in response.

Stiles isn’t prepared for it when Derek wraps lube-slicked fingers around his neglected cock. He whimpers, body tightening around where Derek is pressed inside of him. Derek bucks his hips up in reaction, the hand on Stiles’ cock tightening to the point that Stiles thinks he could come just from that alone.

“Fuck,” Derek hisses, rubbing the tip of his nose against Stiles’ jaw. “Don’t do that to me.”

“Do— _ah_ —what?” Stiles bites his lip, making a considering sound before he tightens his ass once again. Derek thrusts up sharply, his cock pressing against Stiles’ prostate, making his eyes roll back into his head. “ _Oh_ ,” is all he says, even as Derek nips at whatever skin he can find in reprimand before soothing his tongue over it to take away the sting.

Derek starts to move his hand over Stiles’ erection and Stiles knows that he’s close, can already feel his body starting to tense with anticipation. “Derek,” he pants the other man’s name, pulling at Derek’s hair until he’s looking at Stiles, eyes lust-glazes and foggy. “Derek, I’m gonna—”

But Derek just nods, frantically, pulling Stiles closer until their mouths meet, more a firm press of lips against one another than a kiss, but Stiles sighs into it, letting his body go. He arches his back, using what little strength he’s got left to lift his shaky thighs, to keep the desperate up-down rhythm from faltering. Derek’s hand is at the wrong angle, but he twists his fingers up from the base, over the head, digging his thumb into the slit, pressing it roughly over the sensitive part just beneath—and then Stiles is coming, yelling Derek’s name, body going taut like a bow before it breaks, and then he’s quaking in Derek’s arms, slumping against where he’s come all over Derek’s stomach, trying to remember how to breathe.

Derek just holds him tighter, brings his hands down to Stiles’ hips before he’s lifting them up, pulling them down, setting a rapid pace, working toward his own release. Stiles presses his lips to the column of Derek’s throat, making him still, but then he’s saying Stiles’ name like a prayer, rutting against Stiles until he shudders through his own climax, letting his fingers slide away from where they’ve been bruising into Stiles’ hips.

After they’ve slowed their breathing a little bit, regained some of their senses now that the fog of desperation is gone, Stiles hums, nuzzling into the crook of Derek’s neck. “That was better than I thought it would be.” Stiles says it with a little laugh, still riding the high of his orgasm.

Derek’s hands, which had been running up and down Stiles’ back, slow to a stop before they go away completely. Derek clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, it was good.” He goes tense under Stiles’ body. Derek lifts Stiles off of him slowly, his softening cock still nestled inside of him and Stiles winces a little at the discomfort as he pulls out. But then Derek is placing Stiles on the floor next to him so he can lean against the beam. Stiles frowns, reaching for the other man, but Derek is already standing up on shaky legs, walking over to retrieve their discarded clothes. He slips on his pants and shirt, not even bothered by Stiles’ cooling come on his stomach, before he brings the rest of the clothes over to Stiles. “I—” Derek stops, looking over at the window while Stiles takes his clothes from him. “I should go. It’s late.” Derek’s voice is too-quiet in the room, without any kind of inflection to let Stiles glimpse at what he’s feeling.

“Derek—” Stiles swallows hard, “are you okay?”

Derek looks at him, one side of his face illuminated by the city lights, the other cast in shadow from the low lights of the studio. Derek shakes his head, breaking eye contact. “I’m fine.” He walks over to grab his jacket and his shoes, slipping them both on before grabbing for his bag.

“Derek,” the word holds all of the confusion Stiles is feeling from where he’s still sitting on the ground, sexed-out and naked.

Derek glances at Stiles one more time before he’s walking toward the door. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

Stiles stays sitting on the studio floor for a long time after he leaves.

 

~

 

Derek doesn’t sleep the rest of the night. He walks around the city until he can’t feel his fingers, and then goes back to his apartment. Cora is gone and Deuc and Laura are asleep. He smokes through almost an entire pack of cigarettes before he finally decides to shower away the smell of sex and smoke clinging to his skin.

By the time his eight AM appointment rolls around, he’s starting to feel like his head is full of cement. He drags himself to Doctor Deaton’s office, not even bothering to greet the secretary as he waits for Deaton to call him in. It doesn’t take long—it never does this early—before he’s sitting in an overstuffed chair in the doctor’s spacious and tidy office.

“Hello, Derek.” The man doesn’t bother to segue way more into the conversation, something Derek has been grateful for since he started seeing him. “You look tired. Has something more happened since the last time I saw you?”

Derek just sighs, sinking down into the surprisingly comfortable chair. He thinks about not saying anything, but then he remembers what Danny told him about talking to his doctor when he was ready. Derek sits up straighter and clears his throat. “I had sex last night.”

Doctor Deaton pauses in the middle of bringing his pen to the paper in his lap. He puts down the pen and laces his fingers together. “Oh?”

Derek swallows. “It—it wasn’t like that. I—I promised Cora I wouldn’t trick anymore, and I haven’t.”

Doctor Deaton nods in assent. “Okay, Derek. Do you want to talk about what happened last night? Do you like this person?”

Derek lets out a breath. “Yeah. Yes, I do. But—I think I fucked things up yesterday.”

The other man tilts his head. “How so?”

“He said something to me after, and…it reminded me of Peter.” Derek licks his suddenly dry lips. “God, I need a cigarette.”

“There’s no smoking in here, as you know, Derek. Please, continue.”

Derek thumps his head back against the chair. “It reminded me of Peter and…of Juilliard.”

Doctor Deaton shifts in his chair. “Derek, how long have you been coming to see me, a little under a year now?” Derek nods. “And in that time, I’ve gotten you to open up about a lot of things in your life—your abuse, your family, your relationship with your sisters, your work at the club, and even your illegal activities—which you are aware that I do not condone, but understand.” Derek nods again, shifting uncomfortably. “However, in that time, you have yet to talk about Juilliard. I already know what happened, Derek—I have your medical file—but I’d like to hear it from your own mouth, if you’re ready to talk about it.”

Derek closes his eyes for a long moment, unable to look into the kind, but stoic face of his psychiatrist. He lets out a heavy sigh before he opens his eyes and starts. “Her name was Paige. We met freshman year at Juilliard. She was there for music—she played the cello. We—” Derek stops for a moment to collect his thoughts. “We were friends before we started dating. We had a lot of the same friends and were around each other a lot when we weren’t in our classes.”

“Go on,” Doctor Deaton prompts after Derek’s been silent for almost a full minute.

Derek looks up to him. “Sorry. We dated for a little over a year, through the last half of our junior year and into our senior. I never—I never told her. She didn’t know—I didn’t talk about myself a lot.”

Doctor Deaton nods. “That’s understandable, Derek. It was your first relationship.”

“Yeah.” Derek blinks at him, getting lost in the memories. “She was great, always really understood when I told her I didn’t want to have sex. She said she got it, though, because we were both so focused on our work and our future careers that it was stupid to jeopardize any of it when things were good how they were.”

“But then I assume something changed?”

Derek nods, just once, looking away from the older man. “I thought it would be okay. I thought I could handle it. I loved her. I wanted it to work between us. But then we finally had sex one night. Her roommate was gone for the weekend and she invited me over. It started out fine. It was great, actually, but then—”

Doctor Deaton lets out a sigh of his own. “But then…the flashbacks started?”

Derek just nods, closing his eyes like he could block out the memories of Peter’s hands replacing Paige’s, of her sweet moans manifesting into his haunting crooning. He remembers coming out of his stupor curled up in a ball on the floor, crying, with Paige hovering naked above him, Derek screaming at her not to touch him. He didn’t stop until someone called the cops because of the noise. He barely remembered any of it—just that he fought back when the cops came into the room, Paige having slipped on some clothes, but Derek still naked and out of his mind, choking on the memories he’d managed not to think about for almost ten years at that point. He had to be subdued to get into the ambulance, shot up with something to force him to be pliant. The hospital had later deemed him at risk to himself—after a brief but disastrous attempt to jump from his hospital room window. It wasn’t long after that before he was placed in a local mental hospital where he started to get the help and the treatment he needed, but while the flashbacks during the day slowed down, the nightmares lasted long after he started taking the pills they gave him.

Derek somehow finds his voice again. “When I got placed in the mental hospital, I lost my scholarship—got dropped from my classes. It would have been my last semester.”

Derek hears the click of Doctor Deaton’s pen and it makes him look over to the other man. “And you’ve never been intimate with someone you cared about since then, have you?”

Derek stills, really thinks about it. “Not until last night.”

“This young man, do you think telling him about yourself would make it easier?”

Doctor Deaton is looking at him with that cryptic expression Derek has learned to hate. “No? Why, do you think I should tell him?”

The other man gives him a small smile. “I’m simply asking what you think would make the situation easier. You mentioned having a flashback with him last night?”

“After. Not during. It was—” Derek licks his lips. “It was good. But then something he said...”

Doctor Deaton nods. “And what was your reaction to the flashback?”

“I guess, I just kind of froze, and then I said I had to go.”

The doctor lifts his eyebrows at Derek. “You didn’t have a more visceral reaction than that? You didn’t lose time or do anything?”

He shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t a bad one. It was just—I don’t know, unexpected.”

The older man frowns. “No offense, Derek, but then why do you look like you’ve been run over by a truck?”

Derek shrugs a shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing _him_.”

Doctor Deaton sighs and sets his notepad and pen aside, once again lacing his hands together. “Derek, we’ve talked about this. It would be easier for you if you went back on medication—”

“I felt dead on all of those meds. I don’t ever want to feel like I’m not _me_ again. No, that’s not happening, Doctor Deaton.” Derek is shaking his head vehemently, knuckles going white where he’s gripping at the arms of the chair.

“Okay. Okay, Derek. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But it’s been five years and there are new drugs out with less side-effects.” Derek opens his mouth to protest, but Doctor Deaton lifts a hand. “Just consider it. They would help you, Derek. I know the nightmares have been getting worse and you’re flashbacks have become much more frequent. I don’t want what happened to you last time to ever happen to you again, so please just consider being put on medication.”

The words are final, and Derek knows the psychiatrist well enough to know that he will drop it now, his point already having been made.

 

~

 

It’s Isaac’s idea to go for drinks Wednesday afternoon after Stiles’ session with him ends. Stiles tries to protest because it’s barely four o’clock— _really_ , he does—but Isaac insists. He keeps looking at Stiles with his sad puppy eyes, saying “I know something’s wrong, man” until Stiles gives in.

They go to a bar a few blocks away—one that Stiles has become well acquainted with over the last couple weeks. Isaac orders the first round of their drinks, asking Stiles what he wants—whiskey sour—before bringing the drinks back to their table. The bar is mostly empty, not many people being there so early in the middle of the week. Stiles is happily sipping away when Isaac finally turns to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Stiles takes a big gulp, wincing just a little at the slow burn of the liquor heating up his insides. “Not really, no.” He doesn’t mean to sound as rude as he does and wants to kick himself for the hurt expression that appears on Isaac’s face. Stiles sighs. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just—my head’s in a weird place today.” Isaac seems to accept this and nods, taking a small sip from his drink.

Stiles’ own glass is almost empty so he gets up and orders another one before coming back. “So,” Stiles says, plopping back into his seat, “not that I don’t appreciate this, dude, but aren’t you supposed to be mad at me by default just because Scott is? Isn’t that, like, what boyfriends do?”

Isaac looks over at him consideringly. “I don’t know. I like to make up my own mind about people.” He shrugs, “And yeah, Scott may be mad at you, but you’re still his best friend—which is probably why he’s so upset about how you’ve been treating people lately. He thinks you’re a really good guy, you know, underneath it all.”

A pang of nostalgia and shame hit Stiles so hard that he feels a little dizzy. He shakes his head, holding his glass up to his lips to take a swig. “Scott only sees the good in people. He thinks everyone can be redeemed. But the world just doesn’t work that way.”

Isaac sets his drink down, leaning forward a little to look Stiles in the eyes. “Do you think you’re irredeemable, Stiles?”

Stiles swallows hard, Isaac’s blue eyes seeming to see into his soul. He looks away and throws back the rest of his drink. He signals to the waitress, who just arrived, for another before he looks back to Isaac. He licks his lips. “That first night, at the club—how much did Scott tell you about me—after?”

Isaac draws his eyebrows together and frowns. “He just said that it was your dad’s birthday and that his death hit you really hard, so you really missed him.”

Stiles lets out a humorless laugh and takes his new drink from the waitress when she hands it to him. “Yeah. That would be what Scott would say—try to make it all sound really P.C.”

“Was he lying?” Isaac asks confusedly.

Stiles shakes his head. “Na, man. Not really.” Stiles takes a deep breath, steels himself for what he’s about to say. “My mom died of dementia when I was nine. It was really horrible, you know—being a kid and watching your mom waste away in front of you. I didn’t—I didn’t really understand what was happening when it first started. She used to get so mad sometimes, try to say things, but it would be like she forgot how to speak. She cried a lot. It seemed like she cried all the time.” Stiles takes a long sip of his drink, feeling pleasantly buzzed, enough so that he can continue speaking. “Then she started to forget things. It was just small things at first—like what day it was—but then she started to forget people, where she was, big blocks of time. We—we had to admit her to the hospital after she almost got hit by a car trying to find her way home. She’d wandered off.” Stiles closes his eyes against the sting of tears, still remembering how it felt to watch his mother fall apart, knowing he could do nothing to help her. He opens his eyes slowly; he doesn’t look back to Isaac but he can tell he’s still got the other man’s attention. “When she finally—when she died—my dad—he was a cop—was on duty. I was alone with her. I still remember her face. They say that after people die, it’s hard to remember their faces—but I remember hers. I remember her grabbing my hands, looking at me, but she wasn’t seeing me, not anymore. It was like she didn’t know who I was. And then she started asking for my dad, crying for him—screaming his name—but he never came.”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment, staring at the murky amber liquid in his glass. He starts when he feels a hand on his arm and looks up to see Isaac there—for a moment he’d forgotten anyone else was with him—and then Isaac gently squeezes his arm. He gives Stiles a small, lop-sided smile in sympathy. Stiles nods and takes another sip of his drink. “After…after, my dad started to drink a lot. He worked a lot and drank a lot. He used to say that it was because we needed the money to pay off all of the medical bills, but I knew it was because he couldn’t stand to be in the house anymore, knowing that she was gone. A part of him died with her, and he—he never got it back. It was really hard for a while; dad would come home drunk and pass out on the couch. I threw myself into my dance practices and pretended not to notice what was going on with him. He almost got fired once, for drunk driving, but he pulled some strings and made it go away if he promised to go to AA and quit drinking. I was fifteen by that point. Things were better, I guess, after that. We got better, got into a routine that worked for us. My dad still worked a lot, but he was promoted to Sheriff. Eventually, I graduated high school and moved away to college. I went early, into a summer program at U.C. Berkeley. Then the school year started and I met Scott, Lydia, and Allison.” Stiles lets out a strangled laugh at remembering it all. “It was the best few months of my life. I had these great friends, was living the life I’d been dreaming of, going to school for my passion.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know that my dad had started to drink again. He’d been sober for years. I thought he was okay.” Stiles looks up at Isaac, feeling his eyes sting again, pleading with him to understand. “I thought he was okay.”

Isaac takes a long breath before he asks, “What happened?”

Stiles shakes his head, not wanting to remember, but the flood of thoughts break like a dam in his mind. “I didn’t go home for Christmas break. I went with Scott to his house because my dad said he was gonna spend the holidays working anyway. Then spring break rolled around and the four of us made plans to go to Cancun. The tenth year anniversary of my mom’s death was during that week, but I just didn’t want to think about it. Things were finally going good and I didn’t want to go see my dad and be reminded about everything we lost. It was selfish and stupid. But then my dad called me and asked when my plane was coming in. He—he was really upset when I told him it wasn’t. I’d never heard him like that. He was screaming at me over the phone, telling me I was all he had left, asking me how I could do this to the memory of my mom. It was really bad. He said terrible things, so I hung up on him.

“I went on the trip. For some _stupid_ reason, I went. I wanted to prove to myself—to my dad—that it would be okay, that we could continue living our lives.” Stiles swirls the glass in his hand a few times before he downs the rest of it, needing the liquid courage to say the rest. “We didn’t have cell phone service until we got back to the states. I didn’t—I didn’t know for two days. My dad tried calling me—left me a voicemail—before—” Stiles mouth feels dry and he wishes he had more booze to make it go away. “He killed himself. The same day she died. He said he just couldn’t live without her anymore.”

Stiles lets the silence stretch between the two of them, Isaac’s shock apparent by the expression on his face. Stiles reaches out and grabs the rest of the other man’s forgotten drink—something with vodka— and drinks the rest of it. Isaac doesn’t seem to mind or even be aware of it. “I—Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

Stiles shrugs, overbalancing just a little, but catching himself before he tips out of his chair. “What can you do? The past is the past and all that.” Stiles waves his hand. “Anyway. I need another drink.”

Isaac looks like he’s about to say something that would probably be “Stiles, maybe you should slow down,” but he keeps his mouth shut while Stiles goes to get both of them another drink.

By the time they leave, it’s barely eight o’clock and Stiles may or may not be drunk off his ass. He’s got his arm around Isaac’s shoulder—which is a little awkward, Isaac having to stoop down to help balance the other man—and Isaac is helping him into a cab before he gets in beside him. “Where do you live?” Stiles blinks up at Isaac from where he’s somehow fallen sideways onto the seat beside him. “Stiles, where do you live?”

Stiles rattles off his address as the cabbie takes off. It isn’t long before they stop at Stiles’ building and Isaac once again helps Stiles to his feet, shuffling the drunken man along and into the building. They stumble up the three flights of stairs, Isaac practically carrying Stiles because he’s too drunk to figure out the mechanics of putting one foot in front of the other—all the while cursing his building’s lack of an elevator. Isaac digs through Stiles’ bag for the other man’s keys when they make it to his door. He finally gets the lock—it sticks sometimes—before he escorts Stiles’ inside.

Stiles groans when he sees Jackson walk in from the living room—probably coming to check what the sound was when Stiles tripped over the coffee table.

“What the hell?” He asks no one in particular, looking between Stiles and Isaac like he doesn’t know what’s going on. “What are you doing here, Lahey? How do you guys know each other? Stiles, are—are you _drunk_?”

Stiles looks up to Isaac, who is above him, paused in the act of helping Stiles down onto the sofa, but is now looking like a deer caught in headlights. “ _Jackson_? You know Stiles?”

Jackson sneers at Stiles and it makes something akin to giggles spill out from between Stiles’ lips. “I wish I didn’t know him. Piece of fucking trash. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s drunk, though. Never really seemed like the kind of guy to stick to his resolutions. I should have never agreed to be his fucking roommate.”

Isaac blinks at Jackson and Stiles just laughs again. “Wait, _Stiles_ is your roommate?”

Now that Stiles looks at Jackson, he really does seem angry. Stiles thinks he should feel bad about it, and there’s some part of his brain that is trying to tell him why this is such a big deal, but he ignores it, pulling himself to an upright sitting position. “Yes,” Jackson seethes. “This is my roommate. I can’t believe this. Who thought it would be a good idea to give this asshole alcohol?” Jackson is glaring down at Stiles, but Stiles just smiles sweetly back at him.

Isaac straightens up, looking suddenly uncertain. “Well, he was really down, so I invited him out for drinks—”

“You _what_? Are you fucking _high_? Why would you invite an alcoholic out for drinks, you fucking idiot! I knew you were dumb, Lahey, but I didn’t know you were an enabler.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Isaac moves from where he’d been standing, taking a step closer to Jackson with his hands in a surrender gesture. “What are you talking about?—an _alcoholic_?”

Jackson takes a threatening step toward Isaac, making the other man flinch back a little. “Yes. Stiles is a fucking alcoholic! He was still sober when I moved in here. I was the only one out of his options that agreed to live in a dry apartment. If I would have known that only six months later he would’ve fallen off the bandwagon, I would have told him to take his apartment and _shove it_.” Jackson shakes his head, fingers clenching into fists as he turns back to Stiles, stalking toward him. “You’re a fucking asshole, Stiles, and a motherfucking hypocrite. I can’t believe this shit.” He turns back to Isaac, pointing a dangerous finger at the younger man. “And _you_ —get the fuck out of my apartment. You’ve done enough damage.”

Isaac gapes at Jackson for a long second before he’s back-peddling, “Jackson, hold on, I didn’t know!”

“Just get out, Isaac.” Stiles mumbles from where he’s started to sag back down into the couch, feeling the effects of the alcohol starting to pull him under. Isaac narrows his eyes at Stiles, like he wants to say something, but he leaves without further adieu.

Stiles passes out on the couch before Jackson even starts to yell at him.

 

~

 

Thursday is a day from hell. Stiles doesn’t know what god he pissed on in a past life, but there is some sort of evil deity out there that is vying to make Stiles’ life as miserable as possible. He woke up with what felt like the worst hangover he’d had in his entire life. Scott called in, so Allison had to come in early to teach his class—she was especially angry because Stiles was the one who was supposed to be on-call for Thursdays, but no one had been able to get a hold of him because he forgot to plug his phone in due to the fact that he passed out the night before. Lydia ignored him, Allison glared daggers at him, and Stiles’ head felt like it was going to implode.

Added to that, Derek called an hour before his class was supposed to start and told Kira he wouldn’t be making it in as well. Stiles’ class had just finished—and because Allison said he was the only one that Derek had showed his dance to, was the only one who knew Derek’s style—he was roped into subbing for the other man. The class was less than enthusiastic when Stiles told them that Devin Hill would not be there to teach them.

Stiles tried not to let himself think about what it meant that Derek didn’t bother to show up, especially considering what had happened Tuesday night. He tried to go about the class as he would his own, but he was a barely adequate substitute for Derek. The class didn’t really seem to mind, other than a few comments here or there that Stiles didn’t know the routine.

By the end of the day, Stiles having filled in for Derek as the last class of the day, he was ready to go home and sleep away his headache, but instead, he took some more pain medicine and closed up the studio before heading over to _Chaos_.

The walk there helped to clear his head a little, the medicine taking effect and finally easing most of the lingering hangover. By the time he made it to the club, it was fully dark. There was already a line starting outside of the club and Stiles waited a little impatiently to be let in. When he finally made it inside, it was still early—the performances wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes or so—plenty of time for Stiles to find Derek and confront him about why he didn’t show up for his class tonight.

There was also a small part of Stiles—a part that he tried desperately to bury—that was feeling a little insecure, a little vulnerable about what he was to Derek, about what the sex meant—if it meant anything at all, and Stiles _hoped_ it did—and he desperately just wanted to _see_ Derek, to make sure he was okay, because of the way he acted when he left the studio. He seemed so aloof and withdrawn, and Stiles _hated_ that.

So Stiles goes around, lingering by the entrance to the back for a few minutes but with no luck before heading out into the small courtyard in the back to see if maybe Derek is smoking before he starts, but also to no avail. He briefly wonders if maybe Derek won’t even be there tonight.

_What if something happened to him? What if he called in because of something serious? What if there was something wrong and Stiles was just assuming that he didn’t show up because he didn’t want to while Derek was lying in some hospital somewhere?_

There are a million thoughts racing through Stiles head and all of the sudden, his heart starts to quicken in his chest. He goes back into the building in a flurry of movement, suddenly needing to find someone, to ask if anyone knows Derek’s cell phone number, to somehow _make sure_ that the other man is okay.

He’s about to just charge into the back when he spots Danny standing by a table, still in his street clothes, chatting with whoever is sitting there. Stiles doesn’t hesitate, already walking over to meet him before he could think better of it. His eyes are on Danny, just a few paces away from him, the question already on the tip of his tongue when he hears someone say his name.

He looks around, feeling a little lost, his heart still beating too-fast—but then his eyes land on the people sitting at the table, talking with Danny.

It’s Jackson and Cora.

Stiles blinks at them for a long moment, realizing that it was Cora that had called his name. She gives him a smile. “Hey, Stiles, what are you doing here?”

Stiles doesn’t respond for a long moment, eyes going to Jackson as a flash of last night comes back to him. He winces, eyes still on Jackson, who looks like he’s seconds away from getting up and punching Stiles in the face. “H-hey, guys. Uh, what are you doing here?”

Jackson snorts derisively as Danny looks between them like he isn’t sure what’s going on. “I’m introducing my girlfriend to my best friend,” Jackson sneers. “Do you have a problem with that, Stilinski.”

Cora elbows Jackson in the stomach and Stiles catches her say “Jackson, don’t be a dick,” before Danny is turning to look at Stiles in earnest, his eyes widening like he just figured out something important.

“Oh, no way! _You’re_ Jackson’s roommate?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Wait. You’re Danny? You’re _the_ Danny?”

Danny flashes his dimples at Stiles. “In the flesh.”

Stiles lets out a small laugh but looks back to Jackson when he stands up and steps toward him. He stops next to Danny and crosses his arms over his chest. “So, how do you two know each other? Are you like some creepy stalker regular here? Is that why Isaac had to carry your drunk ass home last night?” Jackson’s words are biting and Stiles feels a flush creep up his face, but then Cora stands and walks over to them as well, setting an arm on Jackson’s shoulder that seems to take some of the fight out of him.

Stiles opens his mouth to argue that this is only the third time he’s ever been here, but Danny laughs and starts to speak before he gets a chance. “No way, man. Stiles isn’t like that. He’s actually giving Isaac dance lessons. You know that studio I told you about—the one that was looking for one of us here to teach some classes?—Stiles is one of the owners. He’s cool. Well—” Danny grimaces a little, “Other than that one time when he was a bit of a dick and Derek punched him in the face.”

The grin that spreads over Jackson’s face is so full of glee that Stiles wants to kick him. “No way! Derek punched Stiles in the face? I would have paid _so much money_ to see that!” A look crosses Cora’s face all of the sudden and she narrows her eyes at Jackson in a way that once again reminds Stiles of something—someone—but he just can’t put his finger on it.

Danny looks slightly uncomfortable for a moment before he turns back to Jackson. “Jackson, what have I told you about being nice?” Jackson rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, slinging his arm over Cora’s shoulder. She’s looking between all of them with a look on her face like she’s trying really hard not to laugh.

“So,” she says to Stiles. “You give dance lessons? Is that what you do?” She’s smiling in earnest now. “That’s so awesome! My brother—the one I told you about that went for dance?—he just started giving lessons at some studio across town.”

Stiles lets out another small laugh, shrugging off the embarrassment from earlier. “Yeah? Is he any good? From the way things are going, we may need to hire a new teacher.”

He doesn’t mean for his words to come out as uncertain and questioning as they do, but Danny turns and looks back at him for a long moment. “Stiles, what are you talking about?”

Stiles rings his hands together, a sudden bout of nerves hitting him and he remembers why he’s there in the first place. “Derek called in to his class tonight. I just—is he here?—I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Danny’s frowning, even as Jackson snorts and says something about that not surprising him, before Danny speaks again. “That’s really weird. He’s in back. He didn’t say anything to me about not teaching today.” He frowning even harder, “He really likes teaching, I don’t know why he would—” Danny snaps his eyes back to Stiles’, narrowing them. “Unless something happened?”

Stiles feels himself flush once again, and he looks away from Danny, firmly keeping his mouth shut, but apparently Stiles doesn’t have to say anything for Danny to pick up on what happened, because the other man says “Shit. Did you sleep with him?” Danny’s voice sounds a little frantic, like he’s worried, but like he already knows the answer.

Stiles looks back to Danny and nods, crossing his arms over his chest. Jackson and Cora are silent, Jackson looking a little uncomfortable and Cora looking lost.

They all stand there in an awkward silence before Cora sees something over Stiles’ shoulder and freezes, her face closing down, mouth dropping slightly open. Jackson is the first to track her line of sight and rolls his eyes at what he apparently sees. “Speak of the devil,” he mutters. Danny and Stiles look to each other for a moment before they both turn around, trying to see whatever it is both of the other two are looking at.

Stiles sees him immediately, his eyes locking onto Derek’s frame, where he’s frozen by the door to the worker’s area, pale like he’s just seen a ghost, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. No one moves for a long moment before Derek slowly starts to walk over, waning a little with every step. He stops a few feet away from their cluster, his eyes locked—not on Stiles, or Danny, or even Jackson—but on _Cora_ of all people.

Derek’s chest is rising and falling a little rapidly, like maybe his heart is pounding too fast. Something inside of Stiles twists at having him in front of him once more, at knowing that he’s _okay_ , even if there’s another part screaming _look at me!_ But Stiles keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“Derek?” Cora breaks the spell that seems to have settled over all of them. Stiles turns back to see her. She shrugged off Jackson’s arm and is taking small steps toward Derek. Stiles feels like he missed something— _Derek and Cora know each other?—_ but by the looks on both Jackson and Danny’s faces, he knows he’s not the only one at a loss for what’s happening.

“Cora,” Derek breathes her name; making a pang of jealousy start in Stiles’ stomach. He watches Derek and Cora—can’t look away—as they step closer to each other—and then surprise everyone by Cora launching herself into Derek’s arms  and him hugging her back like they’ve done this a million times before.

They’re both still for a long moment before Derek finally pulls away and then they just stare at each other. Derek’s jaw is tense, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Cora’s looking at him like she still has no idea what’s going on.

“What the fuck?” Jackson all but yells, finally bringing Cora and Derek’s attention back to the rest of them.

Cora looks between Jackson, Stiles, and Danny and then back to Derek a few times before her eyes widen comically and she stares back at Derek, like a sudden realization has just dawned on her. “Derek, please tell me this isn’t the club you work at.”

Derek, who still looks too pale, crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrow at her in a way that should be intimidating, but it just makes Cora lift her chin up at him in a way that speaks to just how stubborn she apparently is. She shakes her head. “No, no, Derek. Tell me you’re not the same one they were talking about.” Derek tightens his jaw but doesn’t say anything. “You—” she whisper-shouts, looking at Derek like she’s pained, before glancing back at Stiles in a way that makes him feel like she’s just looked _through_ him, “You slept with _Stiles_?”

Derek freezes, going almost unnaturally still. Then the color in his face seems to come back all at once, and Stiles can tell, even before Derek rounds on him, stalking closer, that he’s _furious_. “What did you say?” he seethes, getting into Stiles’ face, grabbing at his shirt, looming over Stiles in a way that makes him lose his breath, makes his heart start to beat a cadence in his chest.

Stiles swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “I-I didn’t—say—I didn’t say anything.”

Derek sneers derisively, tightening his hold on Stiles’ shirt. “Somehow, I don’t fucking believe you.”

Stiles draws in a quick breath at the sudden burst of hurt that his words inspire. “Derek,” Stiles says, shaking his head, reaching his hand up to settle around Derek’s wrist. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

But Derek is letting him go with a small shove that makes him stumble backwards. Cora and Danny both takes steps toward Stiles as if to help him, but he rights himself without falling. “Derek,” Danny starts, “how do you know Jackson’s girlfriend? Are—” Danny starts, gaping slightly as he looks between Derek and Cora, “is this—Derek, is Cora your _sister_?”

Danny’s question makes the rest of them freeze, looking between the two—who are both grimacing slightly—and Stiles feels like his entire world shifts when they both nod and send a glare at each other.

Derek turns then to set his glare at his friend, then Danny’s words seem to sink in and he looks back to Cora with a grimace. “Really? Jackson is your new boyfriend? I didn’t know you were into rich pretty boys who think the world revolves around them.”

“Fuck you, Hale. You don’t know shit,” Jackson all but growls, stepping up beside Cora like he’s going to fight Derek to protect her honor. Cora just reaches out for his hand and threads their fingers together in a show of solidarity. Derek watches it all with a raised brow. “Besides,” Jackson starts, his voice a little more subdued, but still biting, “You’re one to talk, Derek. I didn’t know you were into jackasses with drinking problems whose friends don’t even want to be around him.”

Stiles swallows hard at Jackson’s words, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes and hating himself for it. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him now, feel his face heating up and he’s mortified of what these people will think of him—but especially about what Derek will think of him.

Stiles makes himself lift his head, makes himself look at Derek, who’s looking at Stiles like he’s never seen him before. “I’m not.” Derek says finally, eyes locked on Stiles’. “I’m not into people like that.” He looks away from Stiles then, setting his jaw and staring toward the door across the club that leads out into the back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go smoke before I have to get ready.”

He walks away before any of them can react. Jackson looks like a smug bastard, Cora looks upset, watching her brother—her _brother?—_ as he heads out the back door. Danny is looking at Stiles with a mix of sadness and pity that makes Stiles feel worse, somehow. He turns away from all of them and starts to follow Derek outside, the hurt and shame inside of him hardening into something hotter, something that motivates Stiles to confront Derek—because he’s had enough. He’s sick of this game that Derek seems to think he can play with Stiles’ emotions like this. He’s sick of the bipolar reactions—how Derek acted just two days ago, to now.

“Hey,” Stiles yells in Derek’s direction as soon as he opens the door. Derek is standing by the wall, cast in shadows, back to Stiles. He doesn’t even bother to turn around, just lights his cigarette, the smoke catching in the light from above the door. Stiles strides over to him, until he’s practically breathing in Derek’s cigarette smoke. “Hey, asshole, what the fuck is your problem?”

Derek turns to look at Stiles, his face highlighted by the harsh porch light, features stony. “What do you want, Stiles?”

Stiles clenches his hands into fists. “What do I want? I want you to fucking talk to me, Derek!” He shouts. “I want you to tell me what the hell that was all about? I mean, you seemed pretty into me a couple days ago when you were fucking me on the studio floor.”

Derek looks away from Stiles and takes a drag of his cigarette. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Are you kidding me? You’re really going to say that this—what happened between us—was just another mistake to you? That it didn’t mean anything?” Stiles can’t keep the hurt out of his voice even if he wanted to.

Derek turns back to Stiles. The skin by his eyes is tight, his mouth drawn down at the edges. He looks at Stiles for a long moment, like he’s searching for something in Stiles’ face. “Look—it was just sex. It was—it was never anything more than a casual fuck. I thought you knew that.” Derek glances away from him, going back to finishing his cigarette like what he’s just said doesn’t matter, like his words haven’t made Stiles’ world start to crumble.

Derek finishes his smoke in silence, Stiles having a hard enough time remembering how to breathe let alone speak. Stiles watches as Derek stubs the cigarette out, the red-orange embers dying against the cold brick of the wall. Derek turns back to Stiles and sighs. “Stiles, I—I think it’s best if I don’t work for you anymore.” Stiles just blinks at the other man, feeling like he’s been slapped. “I mean, you’re obviously having trouble keeping your feelings to yourself, and I don’t want them to compromise our professional relationship more than they already have. Sorry for the lack of notice, but under the circumstances, I think it’s best for both of us if I just don’t finish out my classes.”

They both hear the booming of the speakers from inside and Derek barely spares Stiles another look before he’s saying, “That’s my cue,” and heading back into the club, leaving Stiles to watch his retreating back, wondering how Derek could be so cruel.

 

~


	6. Six

Stiles doesn’t want to examine what he’s feeling too closely. In fact, he thinks he would be perfectly happy if he never had to think about Derek Hale ever again. He spends the majority of the day locked in his bedroom with a bottle of his favorite bourbon, trying not to remember the way Derek’s words had _hurt_ , the way he had acted like what happened between them was nothing. Stiles hates him. Stiles hates everyone.

He just wants to spend the rest of the day in his room forgetting that there is a world outside of his window that exists—a world that causes pain, where people hurt others. But the world is a terrible place and it’s out to get him, so when Stiles realizes that he still, in fact, has to go teach his six PM class, he curses his luck and cradles the almost-empty bottle a little closer to him.

He makes it to the studio eventually. His clothes are rumpled and may be a little dirty—he just picked up the closest things that looked semi-clean from his floor—and he hasn’t showered. But he brushed his teeth, so at least his breath doesn’t smell like Jim Beam—because he thinks that maybe his friends—if he can still call them that—might notice.

He goes early, not really wanting to—but kind of too drunk to talk himself out of it. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it’s a bad idea to tell Kira when he gets there to call a meeting. He’s shitfaced, and they will all _notice_ , but he also needs to tell them what Derek said. Not all of it—not the stuff that still makes Stiles heart clench painfully, not the stuff that makes him want to go to the corner store and score another bottle to drown himself in—but the relevant part, where Derek said he quit.

Yeah, that’s maybe important. That’s maybe an issue. That’s maybe something that he’s dreading telling the rest of them, since they are all still pissed at him from his slight mishap a week ago—and that’s maybe a conversation that he would much rather have while drunk than sober. Maybe.

Scott shows up first, walking into the offices slowly, like he’s not sure if he really wants to be there. He stops just passed the doorway and looks over at Stiles, who is sitting in a chair outside of his office door. Stiles hears Scott’s heavy sigh, but neither one says anything. Scott looks away and passes Stiles to get to his own office. He returns with a chair of his own, setting it down at the far side of his door, like he doesn’t want to be any closer to Stiles than he has to be.

Stiles tries not to let that hurt him, but it does. Scott is supposed to be his best friend, is supposed to be on his side, even when he fucks things up. He’s supposed to notice—somehow—that Stiles is sad and drunk and maybe more than a little heartbroken—but he doesn’t. Scott doesn’t even look at him again until Lydia and Allison walk in, hand in hand, at the defensive, like they’re afraid Stiles is going to _attack_ them.

Which—he’s not. He doesn’t have the energy. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He just wants to go home and curl back up in his bed. He just maybe wants his friends to _look_ at him like he’s a real person again. And he also desperately wants a hug.

“So,” Lydia breaks the silence, she and Allison leaning against the door to the offices, not even coming further into the room toward Stiles than they have to, “What was so _important_ that you had to call a meeting this late for? Because, in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t want your apologies. We don’t really want anything to _do_ with you right now, Stilinski.”

And yeah—that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does either. Stiles shakes his head—or, tries to—but it just makes his head hurt, so he leans back against his door, bringing his fingers up to massage at his temples. “Fine. Whatev’r. Jus’ wanted you t’ know, Der’k quit.”

There’s a long moment of tense silence before everyone else starts talking at the same time. “Are you kidding me?” “What did you _do_?” “What the _fuck_ , Stiles?”

Stiles can’t help it—he lets out a little laugh. O _f course_ they blame him. Didn’t he know enough to expect that all along? Everything is Stiles’ fault. This shit with Derek is just the latest and greatest, just the tip of the iceberg.

“Are—” Scott starts, taking a step closer to Stiles, “Stiles, are you _drunk_?”

The word is said like some sort of poison, like it’s dripping from his tongue, full of disdain and disappointment. And that’s funny. That’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard—so he laughs again. “You’re pow’rs of obs’rvation are astounding.”

Scott moves to take a step closer, but stops himself. Stiles can see the other man glaring at him in his peripheral vision, so he just looks to the girls still by the doorway. Lydia is scowling at him; Allison is just looking at him with a pinched expression. “Stiles, you realize you have a class to teach in less than an hour, right?”

 Stiles raises a hand, waving her words away. “What _ever_ ,” he says, moving to slowly lift himself up from his chair. “I jus’ wanted t’ let you guys know…’bout Der’k. Won’t be at his class t’morrow. Or ever. No big.” Stiles makes to walk out, but he belatedly remembers Allison and Lydia are still perched in front of the door, looking to him with hardening expressions.

He spins around and frowns at how close Scott is, at the hand reaching out for Stiles’ shoulder. “Seriously, what did you do? What did you say to him this time?” Scott asks, his lips thinning into a hard line

He hears one of the ladies sigh behind him—maybe Lydia—and turns back to them. He catches Lydia’s eye, sees her anger, the disgust written all over her face, aimed at him. He’s got another apology on the tip of his tongue when she opens her mouth. “You always have to fuck up everything, don’t you, Stiles? Do you ever take anything seriously?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, doesn’t look away from him, even as he just stands there, blinking at her for a long moment before he feels his lips twist into a sneer. “You know jus’ how s’rious I can be, Ly-d-ia.” He says her name in a sing-song voice, “Don’ be jealous ‘cause I’m a better dancer th’n you.”

“Fuck you, Stiles.” Allison seethes at him.

Stiles knows he shouldn’t. He knows, even as he opens his mouth, even as he tries to lock his tongue inside of his teeth, swallow down the bitter syllables, but they escape anyway. “Oh, but Alli—you already did th’t once.”

He doesn’t even have to ask them to move from in front of the door after that. Stiles doesn’t really count it as a win.

 

~

 

Derek doesn’t sleep much after his fiasco with Stiles. He spends most of Friday in a fog. He doesn’t want to examine any of his actions too closely. He tries to sleep the day away, but just ends up lying in his crumpled sheets for hours on end, making patterns of the ceiling. He tries not to think, but instead just keeps replaying the _stupid_ , hurtful things he said to Stiles the night before in a knee-jerk reaction to his two different worlds colliding. Things were never supposed to happen like this. Things were never supposed to get this out of control.

He calls in to work on Friday—gives Harris the excuse that he’s sick. Danny calls him, but he ignores it, tries to ignore the texts of concern from him as well. He doesn’t want to speak to him, doesn’t want to have to face his friend, because Danny will _know_ what happened. He always does. Derek doesn’t want that, doesn’t know if he can handle letting another person he cares about down.

Friday bleeds into Saturday. Derek doesn’t sleep, barely closes his eyes. He feels a slow building pain inside of his chest, twisting, until it gets hard for him to breathe, until he has to kick off the covers from where he’s spent the last day and a half in his bed. He has to turn on a light, stub out the cigarette between his fingers because the smoke is suffocating him, clinging to the inside of his throat, making it hard to swallow—it’s hurting his eyes, and he’s sure they’re bloodshot by now.

Derek’s still awake when his alarm goes off. He doesn’t even bother turning over to reach out for the snooze button for a long while. His body aches with exhaustion, with the need to sleep, but he can’t—his mind refuses to shut down, refuses to give in to the rest of his body. He should be getting up now, should be heading to the studio to teach his class—but no, not today, not anymore.

Derek swallows hard. He doesn’t even know why he did it, why he said any of the things that he let spit from his lips. He finally rolls over and turns off the alarm, not really wanting to wake up either of his sisters or Deuc. He turns onto his back and blinks against the bright light on the ceiling.

He doesn’t even move when he hears the knock at his door. He’s even less surprised when Cora lets herself into the room and stops by the foot of the bed to look down at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready?”

“Not anymore.”

Derek sees her frown, “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t respond and instead looks away to stare back up at the ceiling. “So. You and Jackson?”

Cora snorts and Derek kicks at her when she sits down on the end of his bed. He looks back to her when he feels the mattress dip. “So,” she says, raising an eyebrow, “You and Stiles?”

Derek swallows hard and looks away, back to the ceiling. “No.”  

“Have you eaten?” Cora asks after a stretch of silence.

“No.”

He hears Cora sigh and then feels her lay down over the blanket at his feet. Derek looks at her again, knowing she’s here for something, just wanting her to say whatever it is and then leave him alone. “You should eat. I can make you something?” Cora bites her lip.

“I’m not hungry,” Derek tells her. “Besides, don’t you have somewhere to be? I don’t need you to take care of me, Cora.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say, sees it in the way her eyes harden, in the way her jaw clenches as she lifts herself up from the mattress. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you! I can’t believe you just went there, Der.” Derek thinks he should apologize—but he’s not sorry in the least. He just wants her to leave, just wants to be able to wallow in his misery—so he says nothing. Cora’s face is flushed when she stands by the bed next to him, looming over him and glaring down. “What, it’s only okay for me to take care of you when you want me around, is that it? It’s only okay when you need me, but forget about when I need you! It was okay for me to take care of you after you got out of the hospital, but now suddenly, it’s not? Fuck you, Derek.”

Cora steps away from him, paces along the side of his bed. Derek blinks at her, slowly sitting up against his headboard, keeping his eyes on her. Cora’s not one to explode like this, especially not at him. “Cora—”

“No!” She rounds on him, pointing a dangerous finger at him. “No. You don’t get to say anything. Not this time. I’m not gonna let you turn this around until you make me feel like I’m hurting you, like you always do with Laura. I’m not Laura. You can’t do that to me. Damn it, Derek! I gave up a year of my life for you.” Derek swallows hard, looking up at Cora’s face. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “In case you forgot, I’ve _always_ been there. I’ve always been the _only_ one there. You can’t just shut me out. Because you were always the only one there for me too, you asshole!”

Derek lets out an unsteady breath, not knowing what to say. He slowly starts to reach out a hand toward his sister—maybe in a gesture of camaraderie or so mutual understanding of the past—but Cora turns away from him. He’s surprised—and a little hurt—but she keeps talking, as if now that she’s letting her feelings out, the floodgates have opened and she can’t stop. “Do you know how scared I was? Do you know how scared I’ve been my entire life?” Derek hears a sniffle, but Cora’s back is to him, and he can’t tell if she’s crying or not. “You were the _only_ person that ever cared about me. You were the only person who made me feel like I mattered. Do you know how much it _killed_ me, after your breakdown, to see you? Do you know what it was like for me to watch as the only person that ever really cared about me deteriorated in front of my eyes? The mental hospital couldn’t even fix you! You gave up on everything. You gave up on _me_ , Derek.” Cora’s words catch on a sob. “But I never gave up on you, damnit. I was the only one. I took care of you, because you _needed_ me to.

“After the trial…looking back, I know that Laura tried. I know she did, but I was only nine. I didn’t understand that she was just a sixteen year old suddenly in charge of being a parent to her two younger siblings. All I knew was that she resented us, resented _me_ , because she had dreams and goals and we took those away from her.” Cora turns around and Derek can finally see the wetness on her cheeks. “We ruined her life, Derek. And you—you were the worst. You blamed her for everything. I bet there’s a part of you that still does. You have to stop blaming her for not believing me when I told her what Uncle Peter was doing to you. She was just a child, like us. She trusted him, just like we did. To her, I was just her bratty little sister telling lies because she thought I missed our parents. How was she supposed to know that you were just protecting us from that monster?”

Derek goes pale at her words. His head starts to swim. “How—how do you—?”

Cora sniffles. “I overheard it one night. I heard what he said to you. That you had to…be a good boy, or else what happened to you would happen to us. I know—I know that’s why you never told anyone. You—you were just trying to keep us safe. But, you have to let it go. You have to let go of the guilt and the shame and the anger that’s eating away inside of you. Because now—now you’re ruining my life, Derek, and it’s not _fair_.”

Derek feels his throat constrict, as if her words were hands, the fingers of them digging wounds into his skin, cutting off his air supply. He gasps, closes his eyes, tries to will away the tears he feels forming in his own eyes. “Cora—I never—I never meant to—”

Derek opens his watery eyes. Cora’s looking at him, lip trembling, hands fisted at her sides, tears curving over the lines of her face. “Save it. I’m sick of your excuses, Derek. I’m sick of all of it.” She shakes her head, looking sadder than he’s ever seen her. It’s a look that makes him want to rage, to stand up and protect her from ever looking that way, but it’s because of _him_ , and he knows it, so he does nothing. “I’m sick of you.” She turns around and walks out of the room.

Derek stays in there for the rest of the day, Cora’s words haunting him, adding to the well of his mistakes, to the list of things he needs to make recompense for. Hurting Laura—well, Derek always felt like she deserved it, like it really was somehow partly her fault for how everything turned out. That’s why he went away, why he worked so hard to go to Juilliard, why he _hated_ the fact that he had to move in with Laura and Deuc and Cora, because Cora was the only one available to take care of him after everything happened.

It’s amateur night again at _Chaos_ and Derek is thankful that he doesn’t have to go outside, that he doesn’t have to let people look at him like he’s something desirable. He’s not. He’s nothing. He ruins everything around him. He only leaves his room late that night, after he’s heard Deuc and Laura go to sleep, after Cora came home and slammed her bedroom door so hard the mirror on Derek’s wall shook.

He goes out into the kitchen, opening the breadbox. He hasn’t eaten in two full days. He’s starting to feel a little dizzy, his body more than a little lethargic. He puts the bread in to toast, looking around the dark apartment. He hears the sound of muffled voices from down the hallway. It sounds like it’s from Cora’s room, but Derek can’t be sure. It could be Laura, for all he knows. The toast pops and Derek gets it out, almost burning his fingers in the dark, but he doesn’t really care. He butters it and sits down at the kitchen table to eat. He’s just starting his second slice when a door down the hallway opens. He can’t see who it is from where he’s sitting, but then he hears someone knock on a door further down. Derek’s room is at the end of the hall; it sounds like his door.

There’s shuffling feet over wood, and then something that sounds like his name. He wonders if it might be Cora, looking for him to apologize. He finishes off his toast, feeling a little bit better already, now that he’s eaten something, and wipes the crumbs from his fingers against his pants. He stands up slowly, heading back down to his room.

Except, when he gets there, it’s not Cora; well, it’s not _just_ Cora. Laura is there with her, standing at the door to his room. Their backs are both to him. Cora is reaching out to knock on the door again when Derek clears his throat. Both of the women turn around with a gasp.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Derek. Are you trying to give us heart attacks?” It’s Cora who speaks.

Derek doesn’t look at her. Instead, he looks at Laura. “What do you want?”

Under the hallway light, it looks like both of his sisters have been crying, something that’s made more apparent when Laura lifts a hand up to wipe at a spot of wetness under her eye. “You’ve been so tired. And Cora told me you haven’t been eating.” Laura bites her lip and takes a step toward him, only stopping when Cora sets a hand on her shoulder. “I tried to set you up an appointment with Doctor Morell, but her office said you’re no longer on our insurance?”

Derek crosses his arms over his chest, wanting nothing more than to get back into his bed and try to sleep, even if it would be nothing more than a restless night, but this is a conversation that has been a long time coming. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, what the hell are you going to do now? You _need_ insurance, Derek!” Laura looks angry, like she’s upset on his behalf.

“It’s fine,” he mutters.

“It’s not fine! What if something happens again? What are you going to do? They told me at the insurance place that you’ve been off of ours for _over a year_. That’s too long to go without a checkup, or a counseling appointment or—”

Derek feels his jaw tighten. “Well, don’t fucking worry. I had other insurance, but I just lost it, so it looks like I’m fucked either way, since your insurance doesn’t cover sessions with Doctor Deaton—”

“Wait, who’s Doctor Deaton?” Cora butts in.

Derek spares her a glance and lets out a heavy sigh. “He’s the psychiatrist I’ve been seeing for about a year.”

Derek looks away from Cora, but not before he sees her face fall. “You’ve been going for a year and you never told me?” Her voice sounds small and wounded and it kills something inside of him.

He shrugs, looking back to Laura. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t get to see him again, anyway.”

Laura frowns at him, “You said you just lost your insurance, though? I thought the club didn’t offer any.”

“They don’t.”

“Well then where were you getting insurance from?” Cora asks, sounding confused.

Derek uncrosses his arms and leans against the closest wall, “The studio.”

Both of his sisters are staring at him when he looks their way, with differing levels of confusion. Laura asks, “What studio?” the same time Cora asks “But you’ve only been working there for a couple months, right?” like she’s piecing out a puzzle. “And you’ve been off Laura’s insurance for a year. So, what were you doing before then?”

Derek swallows hard and lets his head thud against the wall. “Paying out of pocket for each session.”

It’s Laura’s turn to sound baffled, “With what money? I know you can’t make _that_ much in tips…”

Derek shakes his head, turning to see the look of understanding starting in Cora’s eye. He quickly cuts her off, talking to Laura, “It doesn’t matter. Was there a reason to all of this?—or can I go back into my room and sleep now?”

Laura is frowning again; the lines on her face making her look older than what she is. Like this, Derek sees the years etched into her skin. “I’m worried about you, Derek. For a while there, you looked happier than I’d seen you in a long time. And then it stopped. What happened?”

Derek feels his face heat. He turns his eyes back to Cora, does his best to glare at her. “Did you tell her?”

Cora snorts derisively. “What? About you and Stiles? No. Because you didn’t fucking _tell me anything_.”

Laura stills, looking between her siblings. Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Wait. Stiles? The guy from the studio? The one I gave you the card to?  What does he have to do with this?”

Cora cocks her hip and raises an eyebrow at Derek. “Derek fucked him, apparently.”

“ _What_? Derek, are you kidding me?” Laura looks upset, her lips twisting.

“Yeah, apparently he’s been fucking a lot of people lately.”

“Cora,” Derek says her name like a warning, even as his fingers start to shake.

“What, Derek?” Cora throws her hands up in the air. “You said you’d stopped, but how do I know for sure! And from the sounds of it, that’s how you were getting all your money to afford your fancy sessions with your new doctor.”

Laura’s the next one to say anything but she’s slow to speak. She takes a step between Cora and Derek, who are both busy glaring at each other. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m missing something important here?”

Derek sneers at her. “Probably because you are. You _always_ are, Laura. You never see things, even when they are happening right under your nose.” His words are biting, and he takes a sick satisfaction when she flinches away like she’s been struck.

“ _Derek_!” Cora chastises, moving over to Laura to wrap an arm around her shoulders, to pull her into a hug.

“How long are you going to keep blaming me for something that happened almost fifteen years ago?” Laura asks, pulling away from Cora to look at Derek. “How many times do I have to say I’m fucking _sorry_ before you’ll believe me?—before you’ll forgive me?

“I’m sorry, Derek. I’m sorry that I fucked up. I’m sorry that I wasn’t ready to take care of you when I was sixteen. I’m sorry I wasn’t what you needed, that I tried to help too late. I didn’t know when Deuc and I first started dating that every time you looked at him, it reminded you of the trial and Peter. I’m sorry I never knew, but you never told me! I’m sorry that the first shrink you went to didn’t help, I’m sorry that I keep letting you down, over and over again. _I’m sorry._ ”

Laura’s all-out sobbing now, her words hitching, her blurry eyes looking to Derek like all she wants to do is reach out for him, but she stops herself. “But I can hear you having nightmares again. I can see how tired you look, more and more, every day. I don’t know what’s going on with you, Derek, but you need help.”

Derek shakes his head a little. “You don’t have to worry. I’m fine.”

Cora lets go of Laura and closes the distance between them. He only now notices the tear tracks on her face as well. “You’re fine?—that’s what you call pushing away the first person you’ve liked since Paige?—someone who happens to be my friend, by the way—that’s what you call losing the only job you’ve ever had that made you even remotely happy?—that’s what you call letting people fuck you for money, so you can afford to see your fucking shrink off of Laura’s insurance so we wouldn’t find out and you can go on pretending that nothing is fucking wrong? Really, Derek?—that’s what you call _fine_?”

All at once, it’s like the air is sucked out of Derek’s lungs. Everything stops for one infinite moment. He can’t breathe, can’t think. It’s like the world stops rotating—but then it starts again, jerking everything off its axis, making the world he knew before shatter at his feet in a million different pieces that he’ll never be able to put back together again.

“What…what is she talking about?” Laura’s words sound too loud, too fast, almost hysterical. “What does she mean? Derek, what does she mean?” Laura’s stepping closer.

Derek tries to back away but his shoulders hit the wall. He feels trapped; caged like an animal. Cora’s on one side of him and Laura’s on the other. He feels backed into a corner. He opens his mouth, but the words get stuck in his throat, trapped behind his clenched teeth; he feels like he’s choking on everything unsaid.

Cora looks to Laura, something he can’t decipher flitting over her face. “Derek’s been selling himself for money. I—I made him promise he would stop as soon as I found out, but—”

“Cora.” Derek’s never felt so betrayed, not by anyone. Even Peter, for all of the destruction he caused, never betrayed Derek like this. Derek can’t get enough air, can hardly breathe passed the pain blooming in his chest, the confusion clouding his mind. _How could she do this to him?_ She was always the one person he could count on, no matter what, and that betrayal runs deep.

“But I can’t tell anymore if he’s lying or not. I wanted to believe that he’d stopped, but then I saw the way you reacted with Stiles. Was he—” Cora leans closer, lowering her voice, as if she’s suddenly aware she’s been yelling, “Was he a _trick_ , Derek?”

Derek’s jaw drops; his face flushes. “W-what? No—Cora— _No_.” He’s shaking his head like he can try to dislodge the idea from his brain—because Stiles isn’t like what any of his tricks were. Stiles is different. Stiles made him feel more alive than he’s felt in years—and then Derek ruined it, like he ruins everything. “He’s not—it wasn’t like that.”

“I can’t believe you.” Laura’s shaking her head, words barely a whisper. “I can’t believe that you would do something like this. Especially—especially after what happened with Paige. You—you tried to kill yourself last time, Derek! Do you even _remember_ what that was like for us? And now it seems like it’s all happening again—you’re just as fucked up as last time—dealing with things in the _worst_ , most unhealthy way possible! How could you be so fucking _stupid_?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you, Laura. Get off your fucking high-and-mighty horse, okay?” Derek pushes at his sisters’ shoulders, needing both of them to back away, needing room to _breathe_. “Yeah, I tried to kill myself—and then you put me in a mental hospital for three months where they drugged me until I felt like I was going out of my fucking _mind_. Do you really think I could ever forget that? It happened to _me_ , Laura. You think you know everything, that you guys were the only ones affected, but _it was my fucking life_!

“ _I_ went through it; _me_. _I_ am the one that keeps seeing his face—remembering the way he touched me. _I_ am the one who can’t sleep because beds aren’t a safe place to me. _I_ am the one that has to pretend like I’m constantly okay, just so I don’t worry you guys, so something like this doesn’t happen. You guys all think you know what it’s like for me, that you can _help_ me, but you don’t know shit.”

He’s got his back to them now, breathing heavily with a hand on the doorframe to the bathroom. He feels outraged, angrier than he’s felt in a long time, years of hurt and resentment finding their way to the surface, and he doesn’t want to stop them, doesn’t want to stop the words, because he’s been holding them in for _years_ and it feels good to let it all out. “And you!” He turns, pointing a dangerous finger at Laura. “You _especially_ don’t get to say anything to me. You were _never_ there for me, Laura! You never bothered to care about me until it was too late! You were so keen on proving Cora wrong when she told you the truth that, even after the nurse at the hospital found out, you _still_ didn’t believe it.” There are tears stinging in Derek’s eyes now. He swallows hard. “Do you have any idea what that’s like? _Do you_?”

Laura’s green eyes are blazing, her chest rising and falling with hiccupping breaths. Her bottom lip trembles when she opens her mouth to say, “Derek.”

“And then—after everything happened, you got together with Deuc a year after the trial ended, Laura! Why? How could you not’ve known that I hated him? Did you do it just so you wouldn’t have to explain to someone else why your brother was so fucked up?”

“Derek!” Laura takes a deep breath. “Derek, you have to know that’s not why.” Her face gets a pinched expression, even as she blinks through more tears. “I got with Deuc because he was there for me. He was there for all of us! He understood what I was going through. And I love him.” She gives Derek a dark look. “Love; it’s this thing where when people care about each other, they _don’t_ have to justify it with a reason.”

She pushes her hair back from where it’s fallen into her face. “You are so _selfish_ sometimes, Derek. You think that you’re the only one in this family with problems? You think that just because you had it worse, it means the rest of us can’t have issues coping with all the _shit_ that happened? You say I wasn’t there for _you_?—well, Derek, _no one_ was there for me. At least you had Cora! I had no one! You wouldn’t even let me talk to you most days! And then Cora just did whatever you did. You two treated me like you’d rather be back with _Peter_ than with me. Do you know what _that_ ’s like?”

Cora makes a sound from a few feet away. Derek turns to see her walking up to Laura, putting a hand on her shoulder, biting her lip, her eyes wet and earnest when she looks at her sister. “Laura. Laura, that’s not true—”

Laura’s shaking her head adamantly, though, pulling out of Cora’s hold to step closer to Derek. “It is. I know it is. You two _hated_ me and no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. I tried so hard to make it up to you! Damnit, Derek,” she looks up at him with steel in her eyes, “do you even realize why I became a nurse?” At Derek’s blank look, she lets out a bone-weary sigh. “I did it so that I could help other people—the way I never could help you. I did it so that I could be the one person that would be there for people, that would _believe_ them, like that nurse was there for you. I did it so that I could somehow try to make recompense for what happened between us.” The apartment is quiet for a few infinite seconds. “…I know now I was just punishing myself, doing it all out of a sense of guilt and obligation. But it wasn’t to all of those people; it was to _you_.

“I was trying so hard to make up for everything that I did wrong by you that I threw it all into my work, into trying to get you help that you never wanted. And then, after you came to live with us—I thought—I thought it would be a new chapter; that we could all move on, try to really be a family, the way we hadn’t been since mom and dad died.” Laura’s hands twist together, her knuckles losing color. “But you ruined it, Derek. You were so angry at me—and Deuc by default—and then Cora deferred a year of college to look after you—” She licks her lips, shaking her head again, moving to pace a few steps to the left. “And then you got that stupid fucking job at that club!

“You want to know why I never supported your exotic dancing career?—because you were _so much better than that_. You had so much potential, Der. You could’ve danced with any of the top companies in the country! You could’ve done _anything_ else but make yourself into just a fucking body to be used for _money_.” She spits out the last word, making Derek flinch. “And then, _of course_ you chose Erebus as your persona.”

Derek takes in a sharp breath. He hadn’t known Laura knew anything about his job. He spares a glance toward Cora, but she looks just as surprised as Derek. Laura snorts—a very unattractive, condescending sound. “What, you think I don’t pay attention to either of you? Think that I don’t know stuff about you? Like that Cora’s in love, or that you purposefully chose to be Erebus because that’s who you think you are? Erebus, the god of darkness. I know you, Derek. You wanted so badly to get strength over your nightmares that you made yourself into a monster. Erebus, the untouchable—that’s what they call you, right? That’s who you want so desperately to be.

“Well, let me tell you something, Derek—you are _not_ a monster. You never have been. You aren’t the monster under the bed, or the creature lurking around the corner.” Laura’s looking at him, her eyes sadder than he’s ever seen them. “Derek, you aren’t Peter. You’re not going to ruin the people around you; you’re not going to break them. If you let yourself, I think you could even fix some of them.”

She takes a tentative step closer. “Let us help you. Please, let us be there for you like we need to be. Stop pushing us away, Derek. When are you going to realize that you can’t go through life alone in the dark?”

When she wraps her arms around him, he lets her. It’s the first time he’s let her touch him in _years_ —and it feels better than he wants to admit, finally letting his older sister take care of him.

 

~

 

Stiles gets a phone call from Scott on Monday, but he doesn’t answer it, not wanting to face the eminent wrath of his—former?—best friend. It’s not until an hour—and a third of a bottle of scotch—later that he realizes he’s got a voicemail. He thinks about not listening to it, about just ignoring everything and enjoying what’s left of his day off. But, Jackson is home and keeps making snide remarks about Stiles—about how he knows he’s got a stash of alcohol in the apartment _somewhere_ and he’ll find it, so help him god, because he is _not_ going to live with a drunk—that is _not_ what he signed up for, asshole.

So, Stiles locks himself in his room, puts the bottle back in his sock drawer, and steels himself to listen to the voicemail. He’s surprised when it’s just a simple, short one—Scott asking Stiles to come down to the Studio to talk about what they’re all going to do about getting an instructor to cover Derek’s classes.

Stiles groans. They _know_ it’s his day off. And if they were ever his friends, they should all _know_ that Derek is the last fucking thing Stiles wants to talk about right now, and especially not with them—not after the spectacle he made of himself during the last meeting. He was drunk, but not so drunk that he doesn’t remember what happened, what a train wreck it was.

Stiles sighs, getting to his feet. He pulls on a pair of pants and some socks, grabbing a hoodie from his closet. He manages to avoid Jackson and sneaks out of the apartment with little hassle. The subway ride to the studio is short and uneventful. It’s the middle of the day, the studio bustling when he walks through the doors. Some of the students he knows that are in Allison’s class stop to chat with him for a second on his way to the offices. Stiles is glad he opted for chewing his last stick of gum.

It’s not that he’s _ashamed_ of his drinking. It’s not a problem. It’s not like it interferes with his life—he just doesn’t want anyone to think less of him because he occasionally drinks. Okay, so he _knows_ he used to have a problem a while back—but, to be fair, that was when everything in his life had fallen apart. He used alcohol as a way to cope—at least, that’s what they told him when he did his stint in rehab. They said as long as he stayed clean, kept going to AA meetings, kept a dry place to live, avoided bars, avoided places with alcohol, or people that drank, he’d be good. _Yeah_ , because it was just _so easy_ to do. So what if he drinks a little bit now and then? It’s not like it’s a sin or something. It’s not like he’s endangering people’s lives, even if Jackson likes to say differently.

But fuck that guy. The only reason Stiles let him move in was because, at the time, Allison helped him find a roommate because she was moving out to live with Lydia, and Jackson had fit the bill. Allison and Lydia arranged everything. Jackson was up for it—apparently he’s one of those health freaks that doesn’t smoke or drink and eats super healthy all the time. Stiles knows for a fact, though, that his father wouldn’t let him access his trust fund until after he’d spent one whole year living and surviving on his own. Stiles knows that it’s the only reason why Jackson hasn’t moved out of the apartment yet.

Stiles shakes off the thoughts of his asshole roommate when he opens the door to the offices. He’s unsurprised to see the three of them already there, huddled together conspiratorially, waiting for him.

He doesn’t even bother with a greeting, just wanting them to have this meeting and get it over with so he can head back home. “You summoned me.”

Lydia looks sharply over her shoulder at him. She narrows her eyes into dangerous slivers that make his palms start to sweat. “Stiles. Glad to see you could make it. Sorry to interrupt your _busy_ day off.” She turns back to the other two, flipping her long curls over her shoulder.

He sighs, slowly walking toward them. “It’s fine.” He says, stopping a few paces away from the rest of them, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So, what have you guys decided on the teaching front?”

They all turn to him slowly, Lydia with her arms crossed over her chest, Allison with a hand on Lydia’s shoulder, Scott with what looks like a scowl on his face, aimed at Stiles. It’s Scott who speaks. “You lost us a big business opportunity, you know, Stiles.” Scott lifts his hand when Stiles opens his mouth. “Yeah, I know you said it wasn’t your fault. It doesn’t really matter. Look, the fact is that we already paid Derek an advance on his classes that he’s not obligated to return, since they’re ending in a couple weeks anyway. Isaac agreed to cover the next couple weeks, since his semester just got out, so we don’t have to cancel the classes completely and give back all of the money to the clients. Thankfully, no one’s complained too much about the sudden change in instructor.”

Silence lingers in the room for a little while. Stiles feels a bit like he’s missed the punch line. “Okay,” he says slowly. “You say that all like it’s a bad thing. Isn’t that good? It all worked out. No problem here. Am I missing something?”

It’s Lydia that takes a step toward him, pinning him with her icy gaze. She moves closer until she’s all but leaning into his space, her eyes bright and fierce when she regards him. She takes a not so subtle sniff before she’s moving away, stepping back to the comfort of Allison and Scott. “He’s been drinking again.” She says to the other two, her blasé words juxtaposing the hard looks on all of their faces when they stare at him.

Stiles swallows hard. “Is it against the law to have a drink on my day off?”

Allison sighs and Lydia’s lips press into a tight line. Scott leans over and lifts something up from the table next to them. It looks like a piece of paper, almost like a contract of some sort from where he’s standing. Scott doesn’t say anything, even as he steps closer to Stiles, holding the paper out in his hands for the other man. Stiles takes it hesitantly, not quite sure what all of this is about. He tries not to wither under his best friend’s gaze. “Read the paper, Stiles.”

So Stiles does. He reads it over, not understanding the words—refusing to let himself. He reads it again and again, until his heart’s started to beat faster and his sweaty hands are leaving damp spots on the sheet. He reads it until it finally sinks in, until he forces himself to look up from the words, to swallow back the bitter betrayal, to really look at the people in front of him that he thought were his friends—that he thought once were his _family._

“You—” Stiles’ mouth is dry, his voice hoarse. “You’re _firing_ me?”

It’s a question and an accusation and a million other things that he doesn’t want to think about. He doesn’t understand. He knows that he’s been a dick lately. He even tried apologizing to all of them, but no one would listen! And now—now they are springing him with _this_?—a paper claiming that his professional misconduct is responsible for a total of $6,742 in lost revenue for _Little Light Studios_.

Lydia snorts, making Stiles lift his eyes from where they’ve fallen once again to the letter in his hands. “Don’t be stupid, Stiles. You own twenty-five percent of the company. We couldn’t fire you even if we wanted to.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes at him again. “Which we _don’t_.”

Allison pipes up for the first time. “We just think it’s for the best if you turn in all of your unused vacation time from the last few years and take a sabbatical—maybe think about your life a little bit.”

“But—but that’s three months! I can’t just take off _three months_ from teaching my classes! There are people that depend on me! You can’t _do_ this to me! I refuse to leave.”

Scott shifts closer to Stiles, sighs, “We’ve already figured the schedule out. Each of us agreed to take on one of your classes in the area we’re most experienced in.” Scott shakes his head. “Look, Stiles, this sabbatical isn’t optional. If you don’t take it, we’ll be forced to take legal action. We don’t want to do that— _none_ of us do. We just want you to get away for a little bit—maybe—maybe get some help.”

That’s it. That’s the last straw. Stiles crumples the paper in his hands—as if he could crush the very thought of the words, or the intention behind his friend’s suggestion. “Screw you, Scotty. Screw all of you! I’m not some fucking animal you can just get rid of when you get tired of it. You can’t do this to me! This is _my_ business too! And I don’t need fucking _help_! There’s nothing wrong with me, okay?”

“Stiles.” Allison says, looking at him from behind Lydia, her eyes sad, almost pitying, like she thinks she knows what their decision is doing to him. “We’re really sorry, but you have to leave now. Your sabbatical starts as of today.”

“You know what? Fuck you guys. I can’t believe I thought you were my friends.” He makes sure to slam the office door when he leaves; enough to make one of the art pieces on the wall shift until it’s staring down at him crookedly, watching as he stalks out of the building.

 

~

 

Incessant knocking at Stiles’ apartment door wakes him up from where he fell asleep, sprawled out sideways on his bed with a bottle of tequila clutched in his hand. It’s mostly empty now and he lets it fall to the floor, bringing both of his hands up to cradle his throbbing head. He moans, wanting the sound to stop, but it just gets louder and louder—or maybe that’s just the sound of his own heartbeat in his temples, in his throat, threatening to bring up the contents of his stomach.

He gets up—which is more like a roll off of the end of his bed—and he knows immediately that it’s a bad idea. His stomach revolts and he makes a break for the bathroom, barely managing to think a silent thank you at Jackson for never learning how to put the seat down—before he’s puking up last night’s tequila and pizza. Sweat breaks out over his skin, fingers shaky under the white-knuckle grip he’s got on the porcelain. Dry heaves wrack his body, until he feels weak and utterly exhausted, but now the knocking on the door has escalated to some kind of muffled yelling.

Stiles gets himself up from the floor, rinsing out his mouth in the sink, throwing some water on his face to try to get himself more awake. He debates about pulling on pants, but he shrugs and decides that anyone who wakes him up this early—and in such an obnoxious way—deserves to see him in just boxers and a t-shirt.

He makes his way to the living room and now he can hear the voice a little clearer. It sounds like a woman—but who, he doesn’t know. It could be Lydia?—but Stiles doesn’t know why she would bother to come all the way across town to his place just to yell at him some more, especially after everything that happened a couple days ago. They should’ve realized that Stiles would be upset, that there’s a reason he hasn’t returned any of Scott’s phone calls asking how he was doing. No, it’s probably not Lydia, and he’s sure it’s not Allison.

Stiles is well and truly confused by the time he manages to bite out a “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming. Jesus fucking Christ, hold on” and is even more confused when he opens the door to see a well and truly harassed looking Cora standing there with her arm raised, like she’s poised for an attack. Stiles quickly takes a step back, trying to close the door before she hits him or something—he’s not awake enough for this shit—but she puts her foot in the way and stops the door.

“Jesus, Stiles! I’ve been knocking for almost twenty minutes!” Cora shoulders open the door, dislodging Stiles as she steps inside of the apartment, closing and locking it behind her. He’s expecting it when she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “Why am I not surprised that you’ve been drinking again. Jackson was fucking right about you.”

He clears his dry throat loudly—wishes he had some kind of drink to take away the slight bitterness of sickness still on his tongue. “Cora, what’re you doing here? Jackson’s at school today, I think.” He frowns. “Wait, what day is it? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Cora uncrosses her arms and narrows her eyes at him, taking a couple steps closer to him. Even with the extra inches he’s got on her, Cora makes him feel uneasy, like she’s a predator sizing up her prey. “Why did you do it, Stiles? Did you know the whole time?”

Her words are cutting, violent, and they confuse him even more. He blinks at her for a long moment and then shakes his head—but that’s a bad idea, made apparent by the sharp pain at his temples. He closes his eyes and reaches a hand up to soothe the ache. “Cora—look, I have no idea what they hell you’re talking about right now, okay?”

He pries his eyes open enough to see her press her lips into a hard line. “Derek. I’m talking about Derek, you fucking idiot. Did you know the whole time? Is that why you went after him, why you seduced him?” She sounds a little like she’s gritting her teeth to keep from saying or doing something else.

Stiles’ eyebrows draw together and he feels his mouth drop open a little bit. He walks away from her, heading toward the kitchen. Cora follows him step for step, until he grabs a container of orange juice from the fridge, taking a drink straight from the bottle. “First of all, not that it’s any of your business, but Derek kissed _me_ , okay? He’s the one that instigated…everything.” Stiles waves his hand. “Second of all, stop being so cagey and just accuse me of what you came here to accuse me of.” He sits heavily down on a bar stool, looking away from her, down at the cracks in the countertop. “Everyone else has already told me how much of a fuck-up I am, so please—feel free to add to the list.” The words taste bitter on his tongue.

“Oh, that’s rich,” she barks an ugly laugh, “blaming Derek for everything—like _you’re_ the victim here. Like it’s his fault that he wanted something different than you? Like you’re the one who got hurt in all of this? Give me a fucking break, Stiles.”

Cora’s words have escalated to a yell and they make Stiles wince, but he looks back up at her nonetheless, his own anger rising to the surface. He stands up suddenly, feeling a burst of passion. “You know what, Cora?—fuck you. You don’t know shit. You don’t know what happened between us. You don’t know how I’m fucking feeling. Don’t you _dare_ come into my home like you own the place and tell me that what I’m feeling isn’t valid just because Derek regrets it all ever happened, okay? I don’t need you to give me a fucking lecture. I get it—he doesn’t want anything to do with me. Fucking fantastic. Message received, loud and clear. God forbid I have fucking feelings for the asshole.”

Cora goes pale at Stiles words, taking a step back. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looks at him, like she’s seeing him in a new light, until she finally says, “Stiles, I didn’t know…” She pushes her hair back behind her ear and bites her lip for a second. “Why don’t—why don’t you tell me what happened, then?—since I’m a little slow on the uptake.”

Stiles lets out a breath, deflates a little, and leads Cora back into the living room. They settle uncomfortably on the couch, Cora obviously waiting for Stiles to start talking. “Your brother is an asshole.”

Cora rolls her eyes, settling further back against the cushion. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Stiles’ mouth twists into a grimace. “Look, to be honest, I don’t really know what happened. We—we started out on the wrong foot and it’s like things have been going badly since. Even…” he throws his head back, “even when I thought things were getting better, they obviously weren’t.” Cora makes a sound like she wants him to go on, but he doesn’t spare a glance at her. “He’s— _fuck_ —” Stiles runs a hand over his face. “He’s so fucking confusing—he’s hot, then he’s cold; then we’re kissing and he’s telling me it’s a bad idea and to stay away; then he shows up out of the fucking blue at the studio one night and walks out on me—after—well, you know.” He finishes quietly, reaching down to play with a loose thread at the hem of his boxers. “At the club—that was the first time I’d seen him since—everything.” He lets out a humorless laugh, “And we all know how well _that_ went.”

Cora makes a sound and Stiles turns to look at her. She looks confused for the first time all night. “So, you never—you didn’t know about—” She looks a little uncomfortable, “The sex stuff?” Stiles stares blankly at her in answer. Cora flushes. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

“What…sex stuff?” Stiles questions slowly.

She starts to fidget nervously, rubbing her palms against the denim over her thighs. “Nothing, nothing! Forget I mentioned it, okay?”

“I don’t fucking think so!” The words are out of Stiles mouth before he’s even aware he’s said them. “Look, I just spilled some really personal stuff to you, okay? The least you could do is be honest with me, here.”

She bites her lip again, looking uncertain. “It’s not my place to tell.”

“Oh?” Stiles raises an eyebrow, “But it’s your place to accuse me of doing whatever it is? That’s shitty, Cora, and you know it.”

She lets out a long sigh before she looks at him in earnest. “Okay, Stiles. I’m gonna tell you something, but please, _please_ , don’t tell Derek I said anything.” Stiles nods in assent. “Well, I don’t know, I guess the easiest way to say it is Derek had a pretty shitty childhood. Some really awful things happened to him. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask him.” She shakes her head a little. “Anyway, it messed him up, a lot, and back a few years ago, he—he had a breakdown; completely lost his shit during his last semester at Juilliard.  He tried to kill himself, went to a mental hospital for a while. But the pills he was on, they sucked the life from him. It took him a long time to recover, but he was never really the same.” She clears her throat. “He doesn’t—he doesn’t let people in. He barely even lets me in and I’m his sister. He’s just got a couple friends, people he works with at the club. He’s only ever been in one relationship and it ended terribly. He’s pretty much always an asshole and he says the worst things to people just because he knows it will push them away, so he can use it as an excuse not to get close to them.”

“If this is your way of saying that it’s not me, it’s him, you’re doing a shitty job.”

“No—that’s not.” Cora runs a hand down her face. “Look, Derek likes you, okay?” Stiles feels his eyes widen at the admission. “However he acted, whatever he said, it was all a front, because you—what he feels for you freaks him out. He’s not used to letting people in. And I think you snuck through his defenses.

“Stiles—he’s really not a bad guy.” Her dark eyes are wide and imploring when she looks at him, like she’s begging him to understand. “He’s not. He’s one of the strongest people I know. Sometimes—he cares too much about people, goes through whatever lengths he needs to protect the ones around him, even if it’s protecting them from himself.”

Stiles foggy brain is slow to muddle through the implications of her words. “Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Jesus, I need a drink.”

Stiles moves to get up, but a hand around his wrist stops him. “Stiles. Jackson told me, you know. About you.”

Stiles hates the flush he feels on his cheeks. “What about me?”

She cocks her head. “That you lost your job.” She rolls her eyes, “You know Jackson. He just couldn’t stop talking about you and how happy it made him that karma was finally doing you in for backsliding into terrible old habits.”

Stiles swallows hard, pulling his hand away. “Jackson should learn to mind his own fucking business,” he spits.

Cora shrugs. “Maybe. Or Maybe he’s just looking out for your best interests. Maybe he didn’t want to watch you become the alcoholic he knew your father was.”

Stiles feels a little like he’s been punched in the stomach. “How—how did he know?”

“He said Allison told him—gave him the full disclosure when he moved in. She apparently told him not to say anything to you, though.”

Stiles thumps his head against the back of the couch. “ _Fucking_ Allison!”

Cora sighs, “Look, Stiles, do you like my brother?”

Stiles turns, blinks at her a few times. He thinks about it—really thinks about it—about the way Derek had made him feel when he kissed him, when he held him, the way the other man had looked at him when he thought Stiles couldn’t see. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I really do.”

Cora nods, like she’s made a decision of some kind. She stands up, pulls Stiles up with her. She sets a hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye. “My brother is my best friend, okay. He’s always been there for me. He deserves someone that will always be there for him, too. But he deserves better than a rock-bottom alcoholic that would do more to hinder than to help at this point. He needs someone steady and dependable; someone that Derek can rely on when he needs to; not someone who he’ll have to worry about staying up late for, wondering if they’re passed out in some ditch somewhere. He’s got enough baggage of his own that he doesn’t need yours, too.”

Her words are soft, but each one feels a little more like it’s cutting off his air supply. Cora seems to sense it. She reaches up and places a hand on his head, pulling him down so she can press a kiss to his cheek. “Get some help, Stiles. Straighten out your life. Help yourself so that you and Derek can learn to help each other.”

It’s only after she leaves, when he’s all alone in his apartment, without a friend in the world to call, all of the hurt and anger and guilt from the last few weeks flooding his mind, that he finally breaks down. He cries for the first real time since his father killed himself. He cries until his throat is sore and he feels like he’ll never be able to open his eyes ever again. He cries until the sounds turn to begging for his mother, cursing at his father; missing them both so much that he feels like there’s a piece of his soul that he lost along with them.

He cries until Jackson comes home, until he walks through the door and immediately freaks out over the state that Stiles is in. He cries, even as he asks Jackson to help him, seeing the worry and pain on Jackson’s face that makes Stiles think maybe he’s been misjudging the other man all along.

He cries until he gets in the cab, the bag of clothes that Jackson packed for him held securely in his hands, and the driver takes him to the rehab facility.

 

~

 

Derek has enough money saved up to go to Doctor Deaton one last time. He tells the other man that he’s finally ready to try another form of treatment. Doctor Deaton looks at him with his stoic, dark eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips when he tells Derek how different the medication is now, how it won’t make him feel as sick as the last time. He tells Derek all about the drugs, about how they will help him sleep, how they will help keep him calm. He also mentions to Derek that maybe it’s a good idea if he removes himself from his current situation for a while, so that he can try to get a fresh start and not be held back by the parts of his life that trigger Derek’s flashbacks. He goes on to say that Derek’s already taken a lot of steps he needed to—talking to his family, letting everything out in the open after all the years of feeling hurt by some of them. He wishes Derek the best of luck when he leaves and makes a point to tell him that his door is always open and that he’s always just a phone call away.

Danny takes the news that Derek is quitting _Chaos_ surprisingly well—better than Derek would’ve thought. He pulls Derek into a tight hug, tells him how he deserves so much better, that he can do anything he sets his mind to, that he will help in whatever way he can. Danny helps Derek clean out his locker. Boyd and Isaac are both there, giving Derek kind, encouraging words that he doesn’t quite feel like he deserves—not yet—but he thanks them anyway.

It’s not until a week later, after Danny calls Derek up one night and tells him about some friends he’s got in some dance companies across the country that are looking for fresh faces, that Derek makes a decision. He’s home alone, but he sends Cora a quick text anyway, letting her know of his tentative plans. Laura lets him borrow her laptop later and he’s sitting in the living room, researching qualifications for a gig at one of the companies that sounds the most interesting, when the apartment door opens.

Derek looks over his shoulder to see Deuc. The other man gives him a small smile. Derek doesn’t return it, but he nods. Deuc takes that as a cue to walk over, sitting down on the couch at the opposite end. The two of them hadn’t really talked, not since Laura and Deuc had pulled him aside after he’d gotten back from his final appointment with Doctor Deaton, agreeing to pay for Derek’s medications, since he’s currently jobless and just about broke.  “What are you looking up?”

Derek’s quiet for another moment, typing something into the search engine just to fill the silence. “I’m looking for a job.” It’s not much, he knows—but he’s _trying_ and he feels like that should count for something. While things with Laura have been getting a little better, he doesn’t know about Deuc. He doesn’t know how much Laura told him of what they had all talked about. Derek doesn’t know where the two of them stand—isn’t even sure he really wants to know what the older man thinks of him.

Derek knows he’s always been a sore spot in Laura’s relationship with him—knows now that the only reason Deuc and Laura aren’t married by now is because Laura was always hesitant about how her siblings would react. She was afraid that they would decide to cut her and Deuc from their lives if they made it official—and Derek knows just how scared that thought makes her—because Derek has always been scared of the same thing. They are all each other have left.

“Really?” He sounds genuinely interested, almost pleased, and it makes Derek look over at him.

“Yeah. There’s a company based in New York with an office not too far from here that they hire people at. They do a three-month stint, traveling all over the country doing performances.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking of trying out for a part. Maybe—maybe some time away will do me good.” He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, like he’s trying not to remember that the last time he went away was when he went to school and how it wasn’t good for him at all.

“I think that’s a really great idea, Derek.” Deuc says, his words soft. “I think getting out would do you good. You need some fresh air. Besides, you always wanted to dance for a company—I distinctly remember that being your dream when you started Juilliard. You used to watch those Russian ballet tapes, do you remember?” Deuc lets out a small laugh that Derek can’t help but echo.

Derek sets the laptop aside when Deuc sighs. “Derek, can I tell you something?”

Derek’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, but he says, “Sure.”

“There’s something I should have told you a long time ago, but I never did because I didn’t feel like it was my place. I regret it now, you know, but I’m not sure you would’ve believed me before.”

Derek clears his throat. “Well, with a lead up like that.”

Deuc lifts the corner of his mouth up and shakes his head a little. “Those two years during the trial—I really thought you were one of the bravest people I’d ever met. It takes a certain kind of person to stand up for themselves like that, especially in one as young as you were. Most people never even come face to face with their worst nightmare, yet, there you were—what? Twelve? Thirteen?—looking the monster that ruined your life in the face and telling him that he didn’t destroy you. Seeing something like that…well, it leaves an impression; it stays with you.”

Derek feels a little speechless after that, but Deuc continues. “I know you and Cora always thought I was with Laura because I was—” His mouth twists, “taking advantage of her in some way, since I’m nine years older than her and we only met because I was the lawyer assigned to you. Then we started dating as soon as the trial ended—”

“Deuc,” Derek interrupts, mouth a little dry, “I don’t—I don’t think that.”

The other man lets out a small sigh. “But you _did_. We both know it. But it wasn’t like that. I didn’t think about her like that until after the trial—before, she was always just your older sister—even if I did admire her for what she was doing; taking care of you two, doing it the best she could. But it wasn’t until Cora broke her arm—do you remember?”

Derek cocks his head, thinking. “Yeah…I was away at that fine arts summer camp that my psychiatrist at the time recommended I go to. I remember Laura called one day to let me know. What about it?”

Deuc makes a considering sound. “Laura called me when it happened. She was eighteen, working at some shitty diner. Her boss had told her that if she left to go to the hospital to get Cora, she would be fired. She couldn’t afford to lose her job since the insurance money from your parents was still frozen in accounts from Peter, but the babysitter that she’d hired had taken Cora to the hospital and then took off—just up and left her there. Laura didn’t know what to do. She wanted my advice, since I was the only person that had ever shown any interest in her family. So, I told her that I would do whatever was in my power to help. I managed to call in a favor and get the insurance money all worked out that day. She was so grateful when I met her at the hospital.” Deuc smiles a little, getting a faraway look on his face. “She insisted I come over for dinner as compensation for all I’d done for her. And you know Laura—she’s hard to say no to.”

Derek lets out a small laugh at that and reaches over to pat Deuc on the shoulder. “You know, I’m glad you didn’t say no to her.” It’s a small confession, but it’s true. Their little family wouldn’t be where it was today without him and Derek was smart enough to know that. As much as he didn’t want to see it before, Deuc was good for Laura—was good for all of them.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, neither one wanting to break the spell of ease cast over them. Eventually, Deuc turns to him, though, with a serious look on his face. “You deserve better than what you've been giving yourself, Derek. Promise me that this time you’ll try to only do things that make you happy. I know you don’t believe me—but, you deserve to be happy, Derek.”

Derek’s eyes sting. “I’m starting—” He takes a deep breath. “I’m starting to believe that.”

 

~

 

The next couple weeks pass in a blur of interviews, auditions, and meetings. Before Derek knows it, he’s signed a contract and is packing his clothes up to move across the country to start training with the dance company he just got hired into. His flight leaves tomorrow afternoon.

He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now—maybe a mix or dread and anticipation, anxiety and hope. He thinks maybe—just maybe—this can be something good. Derek’s never been one on taking chances, on trying new things, but he thinks maybe he’s finally willing to give it a shot. It’s an opportunity that he might not get again—a chance to see a little more of the world than just the city he’s been barely surviving in for the last few years.

The adjustment to the meds had been easier this time, but he still had days where he woke up feeling sick, with the ghost of Peter’s hand on his skin, but they were few and far between. And he’d been sleeping a little better, eating more, watching the bags under his eyes fade a little more every day.

Things were far from perfect. Laura and Deuc had been nothing but supportive, but Cora had been avoiding him like the plague, only speaking to him long enough to say that he was stupid and she’s still mad at him—which isn’t really something that surprises him, even if he can admit that it hurts to not have her around when she’s always been there. But, he deserves it for all the times he’s treated her the same way, so he doesn’t fault her for any of it.

He’s packed already—his clothes in a suitcase lying on his bed—one less thing for him to worry over tomorrow—when he decides there’s one thing left he has to do before he leaves the city. It’s after five o’clock by the time Derek takes a cab across town to _Little Light Studios._ It’s not the first time he’s thought about coming here—not even the second or the fifth. He’d come as far as getting into a cab, or onto the subway, before chickening out, telling himself that if Stiles wanted to talk to him, he would’ve called, would’ve tried to contact him somehow. But today is his last chance to see the other man before he leaves for the next few months.

Derek walks in, not really knowing what to expect, but the place is practically empty. He walks up to the reception desk, but Kira is already gone for the day. It’s a Wednesday and Derek knows that Stiles has a class that ended a little while ago in _Studio 4_ , so he goes down one of the hallways that leads toward it. He feels a little weird being here, now that he’s no longer teaching classes, and he briefly wonders if he’s still welcomed here, or if Stiles will have something to say to him about it. His stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s sure Stiles will have something to say to him—maybe he’ll yell at him for how Derek treated him, or tell him to just get out and never come back—but whatever it is, Derek will accept it. He’ll leave here today knowing that he did everything he could to try to make it up to Stiles.

Derek doesn’t want to admit it, but while he’s been feeling a little bit better over the last few weeks, it’s like there’s a part of his life that’s been missing—a part that makes him ache for something he never really wanted before, but the taste of it that Stiles gave him has been haunting him. He can’t get him off of his mind; he can’t forget the terrible things he said to him, the way Derek’s words had made his face fall, the hurt flashing in his eyes. He couldn’t forget the way Stiles’ body had felt under his, the way his gentle hands and firm lips had felt all over his skin. God, he _misses_ Stiles. He misses him more than he ever thought it was possible to miss someone.

He knocks when he gets to the studio door, remembering how much Stiles hates when people don’t knock. He hears the sound of muffled voices, but no one yells anything toward the door, so he assumes it’s safe to enter. When the door swings open, he’s surprised to see Allison in the middle of the room, talking with Scott. Stiles is nowhere to be found, much to Derek’s dismay.

He doesn’t have time to even open his mouth before Allison and Scott are both looking at him, Scott with his arms crossed defensively, and Allison with a frown on her face. Derek’s only talked to Allison a handful of times around the studio, and he and Scott had been getting on better since he’s been spending more time with Isaac, but Derek still feels like he’s an animal that’s just walked into a trap.

“Derek?” Allison asks, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “What are you doing here? Is there something we can help you with?”

Derek steps further into the room, letting the door close behind him. “Sorry to bother you. I—” he clears his throat. “You two must hate me for how I left. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair for me to just quit like that. I should have given you all some notice; especially after everything you guys did for me.” The apology comes out a little gruff, but he thinks he gets the point across.

Scott’s eyes soften and he drops his arms. “No, man. Isaac told us you had some personal stuff to work through when he offered to fill in for you. It’s cool.”

Scott gives Allison a look that Derek can’t even begin to decipher. She gives him a sad smile back, before she says, “Yeah. Really, Derek, it’s okay. We all get having personal things that are more important than a job.” She looks to him with her sad eyes and Derek feels some of his uncertainty creep back in.

Derek nods, bites his lip. “Yeah. That’s, uh—that’s actually why I’m here. I was looking for Stiles. I know his class should be starting soon and I was hoping to catch him…” At the looks that cross both of their faces, Derek lets his words trail off, a sense of dread settling low in his stomach. “What?—what is it? What happened to him? Is he okay?” He feels frantic, his heart flipping over in his chest, pounding in his ears.

The panic is rising, even as Scott and Allison glance at each other for a long moment before Allison looks back to him, raising her hand up in a surrender gesture. “Derek—I—we thought you knew?”

“Didn’t Isaac tell you?” Scott’s biting his lip, a worried expression on his face.

Derek shakes his head. “Tell me _what_? What’s going on?”

Scott walks over to Derek, until he’s just a few feet away. “I’m so sorry, man.” Scott looks pained. “But, Stiles isn’t working here anymore—at least, not right now. He’s—well, he’s—” his lips twist into a grimace and he looks to Allison.

She steps closer as well, lifting a hand to settle on Scott’s shoulder. When she speaks, her voice is soft, but steady. “Stiles is getting the help he needs. He’s in a rehab facility—has been for the last two weeks.”

Derek’s throat tightens and he closes his eyes for a moment. “Which one?” His words sound broken, even to himself.

“The one on Cedar,” Scott supplies, “but visiting hours are over for today.”

Derek swallows hard—the sound audible in the quiet studio. “T-thanks. Sorry to bother you two. I’ll just—just let myself out.” He points a thumb over his shoulder and makes a hasty retreat, not wanting to be there anymore, to talk to anyone, needing time to process and think about what he’s going to do.

He gets into the hallway before he hears footsteps behind him. “Derek,” Allison calls after him. He stops and turns around, watching her jog the distance until she’s caught up to him. She gives him a long look, like she’s trying to see through him or something before she asks. “Are you going to go see him?”

Derek looks away, shaking his head the slightest bit. “I don’t—I don’t know.” He shrugs and then runs a hand through his hair, the movement not doing much to hide how he’s feeling. “Shit. I didn’t even know his problem was that serious. I thought Jackson was just talking shit.” He lets out a loud breath. “I just—I’m leaving town tomorrow night and I wanted to see him before I left.”

She nods slowly, looking at him like she’s just figured something out. “Before you leave,” she says slowly, in a conspiratorial whisper, grabbing him by the elbow and leading him toward the offices, “There are a few things about Stiles that you should probably know.”

 

~

 

Stiles is running; the methodic _right left right_ of his feet thudding against the treadmill doing more to clear his mind than the good night of sleep he finally got last night. He feels refreshed, awake—like his eyes are open and he’s seeing clearly for the first time.

It’s been less than a month since he’s been here, each day at the start felt like years full of agony and anger and shakes, until the worst of the symptoms passed and he felt like he was finally able to breathe. The days got shorter after a while, blurring into the next, into a week, into two. He’s a long way from getting out, but for the first time in his life—he _wants_ help. He wants to be better. He doesn’t want to be his father anymore—doesn’t want to end up leaving the people he cares about with nothing more than a sour memory of the man he used to be.

He speeds up the treadmill, closes his eyes briefly, pushes himself to keep up the rigorous pace; if he thinks hard enough, he can imagine that he’s back running in the park with Allison, that he can hear the ghost of her laughing at him for something stupid. He finally admitted a week ago in his group session that he missed them, all of them. He misses Scott, the best friend he’d ever had, so much like a brother to him that there’s an ache in his chest from simply knowing the damage Stiles’ actions caused to their friendship. He thinks of Allison, of the girl that always understood him better than anyone, who was always there for him, even when she shouldn’t have been. He thinks of Lydia, who he loved right from the start, respected for her intellect and talent; who he managed to break because he knew he _could_. He thinks of them, of how each of them have come to visit him a couple times—at first looking like they’d rather be anywhere else—but they’d showed up nonetheless. Scott had actually smiled at Stiles a little bit the last time. It had felt nicer than he thought that it would, filling him with hope that maybe things could get better. But there’s a lingering fear in his chest that Stiles will never be able to get over, even if his friends ever did—knowing just how much he hurt all of them by refusing to see he had a problem, by giving into his depression and drinking away all the pain he’s been holding inside of him for so many years.

He ups the speed and runs faster, pushes himself harder, until the muscles in his legs are burning and trembling and he can’t seem to catch enough air. He doesn’t stop, though, until one of the rehab center’s employees comes into the room through the open archway—the place has a thing with not putting doors on anything that wasn’t a bed or bathroom—and signals for him to stop.

He does so slowly, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He picks up his towel and water bottle from where he’d set them on the nearest table, taking a big drink of the cool liquid before toweling off most of the sweat from his skin. The woman—someone he’s seen quite a few times, but can never remember her name—tells him he has a visitor and that they’ll be expecting him after he cleans up, waiting in the garden, before she walks out.

Stiles frowns, taking another sip of water. He shouldn’t have another visitor already; Scott had come just a few days ago and Lydia said she and Allison wouldn’t be back until Sunday. He shrugs, hastily heading toward his room for some clothes, then going to the showers for the quickest wash of his life. Barely ten minutes later, he heads outside. The grounds are full of people, the foggy winter finally having broken into spring. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in a week, and the sun makes everything look brighter. There are employees in blue shirts all around to keep an eye on the clients, but Stiles just ignores them for the most part, eyes searching the grounds for a familiar face. He frowns a little, not seeing any of the usual suspects, before his eyes skid over someone with dark hair and stubble and his heart skips a beat.

_Derek_. Derek is here, looking at him, watching his reaction. Stiles can’t bring himself to do anything else but stare at the other man, wondering _what the hell he could possibly be doing here_. Eventually, he wills himself to let out the shaky breath he’s been holding and walks over to the other man. He’s standing by a flower bed, looking somehow different than the last time Stiles had seen him—the sunlight so much softer than the harsh porch light out back behind _Chaos_.

“H-hey,” Stiles whispers when he gets close enough and crosses his arms in a nervous gesture. He clears his throat. “I, um—what are you doing here?”

Derek’s shoulders fall a little bit and he looks away. From this close, Stiles can see some of the small changes in Derek—his stubble has turned into a beard now, his hair’s been cut and styled, and he looks— _better_ somehow—his face less gaunt, less shadowed. He looks better than Stiles has ever seen him, standing in front of him in light jeans and a green v-neck. Stiles spares a moment to think just how he must look, hair still wet and disheveled, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, probably looking every inch of the way someone in rehab is expected to.

Derek shifts on his feet, bringing Stiles back to the question he’d asked. “I—sorry. If it’s a problem, I can leave.”

Derek still isn’t looking at him, looks like he’s thinking about bolting—and Stiles, he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want that at all. “No, no. Fuck. I just meant—” he bites his lip when Derek meets his eyes again. “It’s nice to see you.” He uncrosses his arms and shoves his hands into his sweatpant pockets.

“Really?” Derek asks the word quietly.

Stiles nods before he can even think about it, a small smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. I, uh, don’t get a lot of visitors.” He shrugs. “It’s nice to see a familiar face, even if…”

_Even if you broke my heart_.

Derek turns away for a moment, looking up to the sky, before he looks back at Stiles, his face open in a way that Stiles has never seen it. “It’s nice to see you, too.” He admits. “I—Stiles, I didn’t know you were here. I would’ve come sooner. Scott and Allison only told me yesterday when I went looking for you at the studio and I quit _Chaos_ , so Isaac hasn’t seen me to let me know. I just—I thought you were avoiding me— _obviously_ with good reason—but I swear I would’ve been here sooner if I would’ve known.”

Derek actually sounds upset about it, like it’s something that’s eating him up, and that throws Stiles, because that’s not like the Derek he knew. Stiles narrows his eyes at the other man, trying to piece out something in his eyes or the manner that he’s holding himself. “You’re different.”

Derek shrugs. “I finally stopped smoking?”

The corner of Stiles’ mouth lifts, “It looks good on you.”

Derek gives Stiles a long once over before he meets his eyes again, a small smile playing at his lips. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Stiles lets out a small laugh and just keeps looking at him, taking him in, until Derek’s hazel eyes leave Stiles’ brown ones again, glancing over at a bench nearby. Derek motions toward it. “Can we sit?” But he’s already walking over to it, dropping down slowly. Stiles follows suit, wondering what’s on Derek’s mind.

“What do you want, Derek?” The words aren’t malicious, simply curious.

Stiles watches the bob of Derek’s Adam’s apple when he swallows. “I want to talk. I—need to talk.”

Stiles nods in assent, turning his body so he has one leg up on the bench, his back to the wooden arm rest, giving Derek his full attention.

Derek doesn’t say anything for a long moment, looks to Stiles like he’s working himself up to it, trying to think of the best way to phrase what’s obviously on his mind. When he speaks, it’s not what Stiles is expecting. “I like you, Stiles.” Derek’s gaze is intent on the hands twisting in his lap, oblivious to the open-mouthed expression that crosses Stiles’ face. “And I want to…apologize for how I treated you. But,” Derek sighs, looking like he’s battling with himself, even as he brings his eyes back to Stiles’, “I owe you more than just an apology. I—I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t,” Stiles’ voice cracks and he clears his throat. “You don’t have to. Cora told me—some things—that you’d had some problems—ah, trust issues, I guess.”

Derek tilts his head. “Yeah, I guess you can say that.” Derek takes a deep breath. “It’s hard to trust people when the person that’s supposed to be there to take care of you is sexually abusing you.” He waits, like he’s gauging Stiles’ reaction, but Stiles tries his best to keep his face blank, even as his mind is a mess of confusion and outrage. When Cora had told Stiles that Derek had a shitty childhood, he could’ve never thought that it would be something like _this_. It made him sick, knowing that something so horrible had happened to Derek—and at such a young age. Stiles wasn’t completely ignorant—he grew up with a cop for a father, so he unfortunately knew that things like that happened to people, but knowing someone who it happened to was a whole new experience. “My uncle, he—well—the abuse started when I was really young. And then my parents died and we—Cora, me, and our older sister, Laura—were sent to live with him. It got worse after that. Eventually, I went to the hospital for a broken leg. They cut my pants off and it was a nurse that noticed the…bruises. I was twelve.”

Derek stops to take a steadying breath. “He’s in jail now—has been since I was fifteen. I don’t—I don’t like to think about it. I used to have nightmares, but then I started dancing, and that always seemed to help with the memories. When I went away to college—”

“Juilliard,” Stiles supplies softly.

Derek smiles, just a faint, hint of a thing, and Stiles wonders how he even manages to do that with the gravity of what they’re talking about. “Yeah, Juilliard. I met a girl. She was my best friend for a while until we started to date.” Derek’s face twists into something full of pain. “I hadn’t—been with someone before her—not really. It took me a long time to realize that what Peter did didn’t really count as sex. So, Paige and I, we took things slow. She never—I never told her. We didn’t even try to have sex until both of us were in our last semester, and then…” Derek trails off, looking back to his lap, fingers once again twisting. “It ended badly,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t—I had a breakdown.”

Stiles feels speechless, his mouth dry. All he wants to do is reach over and press himself into Derek’s chest, to place a kiss on his cheek, to tell him to stop talking, because Stiles doesn’t _want_ to hear this. But, one thing Stiles has learned here is that sometimes people have to do what’s hard, to do things they don’t want to do, because it matters to people other than themselves. “She—Cora—told me, um, about that, a little. She told me that you—you were in a mental hospital, that they put you on some pills that you reacted badly to—that you tried to k-kill yourself.” Stiles can’t help his voice from wavering a little bit, can’t keep back memories of his father, of the desperation someone has to feel to do something like that, of the devastation it leaves behind and how it hurts everyone around them.

He feels something warm and solid on his shoulder and looks over to see Derek’s hand pressed against his cotton-covered skin. He stares at the fingers as they dig in a little on a squeeze, before Derek’s pulling his hand away, Stiles feeling the phantom warmth and wishing for more. He looks back to Derek, to his earnest, sad eyes and he leans a little closer to Stiles. “Allison told me about your parents—about your dad—about everything.”

Stiles eyes start to sting and he looks away, taking a deep breath. “Shit.”

“Hey,” Derek croons, reaching out a hesitant hand to cover Stiles’ where it’s resting against his leg. “Don’t be like that. It’s okay.” Derek smoothes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand, “Sometimes—shit just happens—and you either roll with the punches or you let life beat you down.”

Stiles lets out a small chuckle. “That’s an apt description.” His grin is more than a little self-depreciative when it twists on his lips. “I guess I let it kick my ass then.”

Derek bites his lip. “You aren’t the only one. You know, after I got out and got off those fucking awful meds—I was in a really low place. I— _fuck_ —” Derek pulls his hand away from Stiles’, runs it through his hair, mussing the perfectly styled tresses. “I did some things that I’m ashamed of. I got into a bad headspace; the nightmares wouldn’t stop. I was barely sleeping or eating and I was depressed but being on pills just made me feel dead. I’d been working at _Chaos_ for a few months and I kept getting propositioned for sex by some of the clientele. So, eventually, I thought—fuck it. I thought that if people wanted to use my body, then at least I could get something from it. So—I started to let people fuck me for money.”

Derek says it all in a rush, like he’ll choke on the words if he doesn’t get them out fast enough. Stiles goes still for a long moment, his brain trying to understand what he’s just heard, to make sense of the unexpected confession. It’s a while later when he finally opens his mouth to speak, “I—Derek, I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Derek sighs, shifting on the bench so he’s further away once again. “I don’t know either, Stiles. I just—I just wanted you to know. But I stopped. I stopped before we—” He makes a motion that Stiles figures out is referring to _before we had sex together and then I freaked out after_. “But you—you were the first person that I’d ever really _wanted_ to be with. Even Paige, it just felt like it was easy, so I should. But with you—it was never like that. God, I _hated_ you for the way you made me feel, Stiles. I _hated_ you.”

Stiles thinks it over—all of it—and the pieces finally start to fall into place. Knowing all of this new information, he thinks he’s got a better handle on why Derek did all the things he did. _Fuck_ , and Stiles knows he wasn’t the easiest to get along with either, right from the start. “Fuck, Derek. We were so toxic together—so horribly, unbelievably bad for each other. We were doomed from the start.” The thought makes Stiles unbearably sad for some reason, because he thinks that maybe, under different circumstances, they could’ve had a real chance together.

Derek’s staring into his eyes, almost like he’s searching for something—maybe the same thing Stiles is—like if they look hard enough, they can try to see where it could’ve gone right. But then Derek just nods, seeming to come to the same conclusion as Stiles. “Maybe you’re right.”

They sit in silence for a long while, feeling the spring sun beat down on them, hearing the birds chirp from the trees nearby. “You know,” Derek says, almost conversationally. “I’m on new pills. They—they seem to be working. I haven’t had a flashback in three weeks; just a few nightmares.”

Stiles lets out a breath, accepting the change in conversation for what it is. “That’s really great, Derek. I’m happy for you.” And that’s the thing; Stiles is. Stiles is different now—he’s changing, learning how to be a better person, to be more like the person he grew up wanting to be. He understands now that sometimes people have their own shit to work through, that the world isn’t just about Stiles and what he wants or needs. But Stiles thinks that maybe Derek’s different now, too. Maybe he’s also trying to be someone new, someone different, someone better.

“So,” Stiles starts, “you said you quit _Chaos_?” Derek finally looks up at Stiles. “What are you going to do now?”

Derek leans back and takes another deep breath. “Well, that’s actually why I’m here.” He smiles a sad smile. “I’m leaving tonight. I got a job with a company based in New York and I start tomorrow.” His face seems to brighten with the news, like he’s really, actually happy that he’s doing this.

Stiles ignores the ache in his chest and smiles widely at Derek. “Dude, that’s awesome!”

“Yeah,” Derek says, letting out a small laugh. “It’s always been a dream of mine. I have three weeks of training and then I’m off for a three month stint, traveling around the country.” He looks to Stiles after he stops talking, biting his lip, waiting for a reaction.

Stiles swallows hard. “Well…that’s a really great opportunity.” He closes his mouth, opens it again, closes it. “I’m really happy that you’re doing something that makes you happy,” Stiles finally settles on. “You deserve something good in your life.”

Derek lets out a breath like he’s been holding it this whole time; it makes his shoulders drop, like all of the tension in his body has been released. He gives Stiles another small smile, reaching out his hand to once again cover the other man’s. “So do you, you know. You deserve to be happy, too.”

Stiles shifts his body until he’s moving down the bench, pressing his side against Derek’s, tentatively placing his head on Derek’s shoulder, turning his hand up to lace his and Derek’s fingers together. “Maybe—” Stiles starts, but then he’s suddenly unsure. Derek makes a sound in his throat, encouraging him. “Maybe we can—I don’t know—take the next few months for both of us to figure out some things. We can see if we might want to give this—us—another try?” Derek doesn’t say anything in the negative, so Stiles continues softly. “Maybe when you get back—if you want—you could look me up.”

Derek pulls at their joined fingers, bringing Stiles’ hand up to press a dry kiss to the back of his palm. The heat of it makes something inside of Stiles settle and he smiles again. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

Derek drops their hands back to Stiles lap and the two of them sit there like that for a while longer.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm so very sorry about how long this chapter took to get up. Sorry, everyone!
> 
> Second, this is the ending that I've been imagining for this story since the beginning, and I'm really, really happy with how it turned out!
> 
> BUT! I decided to be nice to you guys, so I will be writing a short little epilogue that should (hopefully) be up soon.


	7. Epilogue

 Three months later.

 

~

 

It’s a Wednesday when Derek finally calls Stiles.

Stiles knows from Cora that Derek’s been back for almost a week, but he’d been giving the other man the time and space he knew he probably still needed—so Stiles decided to wait and let Derek contact him. In the end, Derek had just called Stiles while he was between classes at the studio, practicing to help out Isaac with one of his new routines for their summer classes.

 

_“Hello?” Stiles answers his cell phone, heart pounding a little harder in his chest_

_There’s a moment of silence. “Stiles,” Derek says, voice soundings soft, if a little distorted, “Hey. How are you?”_

_Stiles can’t help but smile, moving to pick up his bag from the studio floor. “Hey. I’m good. Really good, actually.” Stiles bites his lip, debating. “It’s good to hear your voice.” He plays with the strap of his bag._

_“You, too.” Derek says, words still quiet. There’s another small silence. “I’ve missed you.”_

_Stiles lets out the breath he feels like he’s been holding for months, turning to look out the large windows of_ Studio 3 _that overlook the city.  “Derek, you have no idea…”_

_Something that sounds like a small laugh filters through the speaker. “I’m pretty sure I do. But you’re welcome to tell me all about how much you missed me. Maybe—” Stiles bites his lip, waiting. “Maybe you can meet me for dinner tonight? At the Italian place on Twelfth?”_

_Stiles smiles, even though he knows Derek can’t see it. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. Around seven?”_

_“Seven works for me. See you then.”_

_“Bye, Derek.”_

_It’s not what Stiles wants to say, not really, but there will be time for all of that later. He listens to the soft exhale Derek makes down the line, “Bye, Stiles.”_

Stiles had hung up, feeling better than he’d felt in a long time.

And then Scott had shown up.

 

_Stiles stares out the window, watching the way the mid-afternoon sun reflects off the glass of the other buildings, the way it bathes the people of the street below in soft summer warmth._

_There’s a knock on the door, but Stiles doesn’t move to see who it is._

_“Hey,” a voice calls from behind him. Stiles doesn’t turn around immediately; instead, he takes one more look at the city before he replies._

_“Scott.” Stiles’ voice is polite, if a little cool, but he just can’t muster any more warmth into the tone. He softens it by finally turning, though, and hoisting his bag higher onto his shoulder. “What can I do for you?”_

_Scott’s looking at Stiles like he’s second guessing being here, like maybe he’s thinking about leaving anyway and just pretending he didn’t actually have a reason for coming in here and searching out where he knew Stiles would surely be. Scott clears his throat, “Kira’s cutting out early. She wanted me to tell you she’s staying the night at Heather’s.”_

_Stiles nods. It wasn’t unusual for Kira to stay at her girlfriends place a few nights a week—and had become a much more common occurrence since Stiles moved into the second bedroom at her apartment after he got out of rehab—Kira liked knowing someone would be there to watch all of her things. Scott had been living with Isaac for a month by that point, leaving Kira in need of a roommate, so it had worked out for everyone._

_Originally, the plan had been for Stiles to stay with Lydia and Allison, since Stiles had turned the lease on his apartment over to Jackson when he left—and Cora was now living with Jackson and splitting the rent. But, things with all of his friends were still rocky. His friends had been walking on eggshells around him for weeks now—no one daring to voice what they really think—that things are different now; that there’s no way they will ever go back to how they used to be._

_The worst part is that Stiles had been trying. He’s been putting so much effort into making sure to say kind, supportive things to his friends at every turn—as if he could somehow make up for the shit he put them through. But, it was like he was the only one willing to give even a little._

_Kira and Cora have really been the only people Stiles can talk to. It helps that Cora is one of the few people who actually knows not to talk about Derek around him—but it’s not like the two of them see each other all that often to begin with. Kira, on the other hand, is just happy enough to let Stiles do his own thing. They keep tabs on each other as roommates do, but their level of friendship isn’t one that requires constant communication._

_That being said, it’s a little weird of Kira not to simply text Stiles that she’s going over to Heather’s for the night. “Why didn’t Kira just tell me that herself?”_

_Scott shifts on his feet, looking anywhere but at Stiles. “I—I think she wanted me to use it as an excuse to talk to you.”_

_Stiles holds back a sigh. Of course Kira would set this up to try to fix things._ Of course _. “There’s nothing to talk about. You told me everything you needed to say the other night. I heard you, loud and clear.”_

_He’s tired of this argument already, still emotionally exhausted from the screaming/crying match they’d had a few days prior. It was one of the rare occasions where Scott invited Stiles over to his place for some quality friendship time. In the near month that Stiles had been back, Scott had asked him over a total of two times. Each time, it felt to Stiles like Scott would rather be anywhere else in the world than alone with Stiles—and it hurt. He’s Stiles’ best friend; the person that he always thought would be there for him through everything—but Scott was pulling away from Stiles, had been for months now, even before everything with Derek spiraled out of control._

_Lydia and Allison put effort into spending time with Stiles, into trying to rekindle their friendship, but it seemed to Stiles that Scott was willing to throw it all away. And it hurt Stiles more than it should have, to know that Scott didn’t want to be around him anymore. Even now, with Scott standing in front of him after the confrontation they’d had, Stiles wasn’t sure what to say._

_Scott had told him that he didn’t know if they could be friends anymore, and Stiles—Stiles had finally broke and told Scott everything he was feeling—about the hurt and betrayal he still felt from Scott and Lydia and Allison—about how he felt like he constantly needed to try to make amends to all of them for how he treated them, but that it wasn’t all on him. There was only so much hurt and guilt he was willing to stomach, and they were all at fault for how things turned out, not just Stiles._

_Stiles had confronted Scott about how he was the one person that should have seen what was happening to Stiles, that should have cared enough to ask_ why _Stiles was acting out. Scott should have been there for him—because Scott was like his fucking_ brother _—but he wasn’t, and Stiles didn’t know if that was ever something he would get over._

_That had been a few days ago, and Stiles and Scott hadn’t talked since then, not until right now, with Scott standing across from him in the studio. “Stiles…I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m sorry. I was so wrapped up in my own feelings and in being angry at you for how you were treating all of us, that I never stopped to think about how it must’ve been for you. And I’m so sorry for that.” Scott takes a couple tentative steps closer and Stiles doesn’t say anything, so Scott seems to take that as a good sign. “I’ve really thought about what you said and—Stiles, you’re my brother. I—” Stiles watches the other man’s Adam’s apple bob on a swallow, watches Scott’s dark eyes get a little wet, “I need you in my life, man. I need you by my side.”_

_And then Scott’s closing the distance between them and pulling Stiles into a warm, tight hug._

_Stiles lets out a weary sigh, feeling like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders. “I just want my best friend back,” he whispers the admission into Scott’s shoulder._

_Scott lets out a small laugh. “So do I. Maybe—” Scott pulls back a little to shoot a watery smile at him. “Maybe we can start working on it?”_

_Stiles just nods and pulls Scott back into another hug._

They’d spent the next hour sitting in the studio, hugging and talking and crying, until Isaac finally came looking for Stiles and found the two of them like that.

That had been earlier this afternoon, and now Stiles is sitting in a cab, on his way to the restaurant to meet Derek. He’s freshly showered, wearing his nice, special occasion clothes, feeling the tension in his stomach like knots. He can’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous. But there’s something about realizing that soon he’ll be face to face with the man he’d been missing and thinking about on and off for the last three months that starts to make him realize the gravity of the situation.

What if Derek’s found someone else? What if he decided to move to the city where the dance company is based and this dinner is just to break the news and let him down gently. Or, worse, what if Derek doesn’t like the person Stiles is now?—what if Stiles lets him down?

There are so many thoughts spinning in his head that he doesn’t even notice the cab has stopped until the driver makes a comment at him. Stiles gets out in a hurry, hastily paying his fare before he turns to the doors of the restaurant. Stiles heads inside, figuring that Derek is probably waiting inside so he doesn’t sweat through his clothes in the sticky summer air.

He’s surprised when the hostess asks him for his reservation and he just says “Hale” without thought. The woman looks at the list before motioning Stiles to follow. She leads him into the back of the restaurant, to a section where the lights are low, the tables are small and spread far apart, until she gestures to a table tucked into the far corner.

Stiles looks over in the direction of the table, his eyes taking in the dim light, the candles lit and flickering on the tabletop—and then he sees Derek standing up, looking at Stiles, his lips stretched into a smile that makes something in Stiles’ stomach flutter. Stiles doesn’t know how he makes it over to the table, doesn’t remember willing his feet to move at all, but then he’s there, in front of Derek and he’s still smiling and then Derek is spreading his arms and Stiles all but throws himself into hugging Derek. Derek holds him softly, exhaling a sweet breath that tickles Stiles’ ear. Stiles closes his eyes, briefly, before he pulls back. Neither says anything for a long moment, before Derek clears his throat and steps back to smooth down the line of his jacket. “We should—ah—we should sit.”

Stiles smiles, can see even in the low light that Derek’s blushing a little. “Okay.”

They both sit down. Stiles is careful not to knock the table and the candles atop it. He looks over at Derek and can’t help the goofy grin that spreads across his face. “Hi,” he says.

Derek gives him another small smile. “Hi, Stiles.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were gonna call.”

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s said those words and panics for a minute, but then Derek is reaching out and placing his hand over Stiles’, gently, the smile still working at the corner of his lips. “I wanted to spend some time with my family first. Cora and I…we didn’t really leave on the best terms, so I wanted to try to make it up to her.” Derek slowly moves his hand back. “Jackson says hi, by the way.”

Stiles lets out a soft snort at that. “Yeah, I’ll bet he did.” Stiles tilts his head. “So how are things with—Laura—right?”

Derek nods, “Yeah. She’s good. Her and her fiancé just left town for the next few days, looking at places to have their wedding. They’ve decided on the end of September, so Laura wants the perfect fall, outdoor wedding experience—her words, not mine. I don’t know who’s more excited about it all—Laura or Cora. It’s only been a week but they are both driving me crazy.”

Stiles laughs a little, about to say something back but the waiter shows up. He asks them if they’d like a bottle of wine to share. There’s a moment when Derek looks over at Stiles, like he’s waiting for his reaction, sizing up what he’s going to do, but then Stiles just declines the offer, asking for an Italian soda for himself. Derek gets a Vienna coffee and the waiter leaves.

Derek opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to say something, but Stiles just holds up a hand and reaches into his pant pocket with the other. “Hey, so, I want to show you something.”

He pulls out the chip from his pocket and sets it on the table in front of Derek. Derek looks at it for a long moment before he picks it up. The chip is green, proclaiming his three months of sobriety. Stiles bites his lip, watches Derek look it over, watches him read the words on the front and back. “Wow. Stiles,” Derek looks up at him, his eyes searching, something so earnest in his expression that it makes Stiles throat constrict a little. Derek once again reaches out to cover Stiles’ hand. “I’m so proud of you. Congratulations.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say so he just flips his hand over under Derek’s. “I—ah—I’m a week away from getting my four month one. They tell me that one is purple.”

Derek breaks eye contact to set the coin back into Stiles’ upturned palm before he looks back up under his lashes, the flickering glow from the candles setting soft shadows on his cheeks. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Stiles grins, moving to place the chip back into his pocket. They both look over their menus after that. Stiles notes that this is a vegan friendly restaurant and wonders if Derek knows someone vegan—but everything looks amazing and Stiles is having a hard time deciding what he wants. Before long, the waiter comes back, setting their drinks down, and takes their orders. Stiles gets a cup of Pasta Fagioli soup and Manicotti Alla Romana; Derek orders of cup of soup as well—Stracciatella—and the Lasagne Verdi al Forno.

When the waiter leaves, they go back to sitting in silence for a few minutes. “So,” Stiles starts, deciding to finally ask the question he’s been wanting the answer to since he walked in, “what are you plans next?”

Derek takes another slow sip of his coffee before he sets it down. He stares at the mug for a second. “I don’t—I don’t really know yet.” He looks up at Stiles, “The company offered me a spot in their next tour, but it’s not until October.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Do you like it with them?”

“Yeah,” Derek nods, “I do. It was a lot of hard work and there were days I thought I would die from exhaustion, but it was the good kind of tough, you know? And—and I was doing something I love, something I used to dream about when I first went to Juilliard.”

A slow smiles spreads over Stiles’ face. “God, Derek, that’s awesome! I’m so happy for you.”

Their food arrives soon after and both men are too busy trying not to shovel food into their mouths and look impolite, than to actually talk to each other. Eventually, when their plates are mostly cleared, after Derek’s ordered them some dessert—much to Stiles’ joy, but his stomach’s protest—Derek looks back at him, finishing off his drink. “So, what about you? How are things?”

Stiles shrugs. “They’re—well, they could be better. I’m working on things with Scott, Lydia, and Allison still. Scott and I have been having a hard spot, but I think we’ll work through it fine.”

“Stiles, I know how hard it must be for you to come back after what happened, but if anyone can, it’s you.” The sincerity in his words make any protests die on Stiles’ lips. “I couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to have you in their life.”

Stiles chokes a little on the soda he’s just taken a sip of. He coughs a bit, Derek looking on with a raise of his eyebrow. Eventually, Stiles clears his throat, “Do—um, do you want to have me in your life?”

It’s a stupid question and Stiles immediately feels heat flame his face. He looks away from Derek’s gaze—doesn’t want to see the pity that he knows is probably there. Why would Derek—Derek, who is finally getting his life back on track and following his dreams—want to waste his time with Stiles—who is nothing more than a newly sober alcoholic that is still doing the same things he’s always done. He’s got nothing to offer but baggage, even if he is trying to work on it and be a better person. But Stiles knows better than anyone that intentions only count for so much.

“Stiles,” Derek is whispering, trying to get his attention. “Stiles, look at me.” Stiles doesn’t, can’t face the rejection he knows must be coming.

The waiter chooses that moment to set down the Zuppa Inglese Derek ordered for them to share, making Stiles look up from the table. Derek catches his eye and before Stiles can think to do anything, Derek is getting up to move his chair closer to Stiles’.

“Derek, what are you—” but Derek’s already grabbing one of the spoons and scooping up some of the dessert.

He holds out the spoon for Stiles to take. “Try it.”

Stiles sighs a little, not really wanting the sweet when he can feel the humiliation rolling around in his stomach, but he takes the spoon from Derek nonetheless and takes the bite, tasting the layered treat. It’s good—really good, and Stiles momentarily forgets what he just asked Derek, reaching his spoon out for more. Derek picks up the other spoon, and gets some for himself. They are both making quick work of the dessert when Derek turns to Stiles, leaning a little bit into his space, so that their shoulders are touching. Stiles pauses with his arm outstretched to look at him.

Derek’s looking at Stiles’ face, into his eyes, with a serious expression on his face. “I do, you know.”

Stiles’ mouth goes dry for a moment and he sets his spoon down, turning to better face Derek. “Do what?”

Derek must’ve set his own utensil down before, because he reaches an empty hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek. “I want you in my life.”

And then Derek is closing the distance and bringing their mouths together. The kiss is soft, sweet, and Stiles tastes creamy custard on Derek’s lips. Derek strokes his thumb over the curve of Stiles’ cheek and Stiles sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth to let Derek taste him. The kiss doesn’t last long, but it’s enough to ease the nerves Stiles had been feeling all night.

Derek presses their foreheads together, still stroking his thumb, over the line of Stiles’ jaw. “Derek—” Stiles reaches up to run his fingers over the nape of Derek’s neck. “You have no idea how much I—”

But Derek cuts him off with another chaste kiss. “I know, Stiles. I know.”

Derek pulls away, a smile playing on his lips, and all Stiles can think about is how much he wants to kiss them again, to feel them all over his skin. Stiles thinks something must show on his face because Derek lets out a laugh and moves his hand down to pat briefly at Stiles’ thigh before he reaches for his forgotten spoon again.

They finish the dessert off in relative silence, each of them throwing glances and small smiles at the other periodically, until the waiter comes over once more with the check.

Derek manages to slip the waiter his card before Stiles even gets his wallet out, but Stiles can’t really find it in himself to be even the least bit angry, especially with the shit-eating grin Derek throws Stiles’ way when he signs the bill.

They walk out of the restaurant unhurried, their shoulders bumping occasionally. The night is starting to cool. They start to walk down the block and Stiles is about to ask if Derek wants to walk with him to the subway when he grabs Stiles’ hand and laces their fingers together. “Do you want to share a cab?” He asks.

Stiles gives Derek’s fingers a small squeeze. “Are you sure? I mean, we live on opposite sides of the city. It’s not like my place is on the way to yours.”

Derek pulls Stiles to a stop and turns so that he’s looking Stiles in the eye. There’s no hesitancy on Derek’s face or in his voice when he says, “I was actually thinking that maybe we could share a cab to your place.”

Stiles just leans in and presses his lips to Derek’s, hoping that it’s answer enough.

 

~

 

The ride to Stiles’ apartment is unhurried, spent with both of them unusually quiet—but the silence is soft, comfortable. Derek takes in the lights of the city, leaning up against Stiles’ side as he looks out the window, watching the people and the haze of life blur by. He sets his head on Stiles’ shoulder—and it’s nice. Stiles feels better than he remembers, warm and alive, and when he wraps his arm around Derek’s shoulders, Derek melts into the embrace, turning his face up to look at the line of Stiles’ jaw before Stiles looks down at him.

Derek reaches a hand up, sets it on the skin of Stiles’ throat, thinks about bringing their mouths together again, but then the cab is slowing to a stop. Derek removes himself from under Stiles’ arm and they make their way out of the cab, Stiles paying for the fare.

They moves to the entrance of the building and Stiles gestures for Derek to follow. They make their way inside, into the elevator, taking it up to the fifth floor. As they walk down the hall, stopping before one of the doors, Derek starts to feel the nerves coming back, rolling around in his stomach.

He’s not sure why he offered to come home with Stiles, doesn’t know if it’s the right or the healthy thing to be doing. He doesn’t know if it can really just be this easy to pick up and start fresh—there’s too much history between them, too many hurt feelings and misconceptions that need to be worked out. It’s only been three months since Derek left him at the rehab center, wishing him well, wishing that both of them had met on different terms, wishing that both of them were different people with different experiences.

It would be a lie to say he hasn’t thought about Stiles at all in the time since, though. Some days, when he was exhausted and not even the pills helped him to fall asleep in whichever hotel room in whichever city they happened to be in, he would think about Stiles, remember the way he looked the last time he saw him—remember the way he’d asked so tentatively if they could try again one day.

And Derek—Derek wants it. He wants Stiles more than he’s ever wanted anyone before. He’d given himself a week after he got back here to try to figure out what the next step with them should be. He’d hesitated over calling—because what if Stiles had moved on? What if he’d found someone else or just wasn’t interested in waiting around for Derek anymore. That had been the one thought that had kept him from reaching out, until one day, Cora just kind of yelled at him because Stiles had been asking about him ever since she casually mentioned to him that Derek was home, in the hope that Stiles would take the initiative to call Derek—since apparently she could see the struggle in Derek every time he looked at his phone when a call came through, and then the subsequent disappointment when it wasn’t Stiles.

So, he’d finally called, set up dinner—but then the nerves had come back full force, all day, until he’d finally seen Stiles at the restaurant, looking so much better than he ever remembered him looking. He’d bulked up a little, gotten a slight tan—managed to look happier than he’d ever seen him—and when Derek finally kissed him, something had seemed to settle inside of him.

Until now, standing outside of Stiles’ apartment door while the other man fiddled with his keys, managing to drop them with a loud clang in the empty hallway. Derek bends down to pick them up the same time Stiles does and he hears Stiles let out a shaky breath, his fingers trembling slightly as they reach for where Derek’s are already gripping the metal ring. Stiles looks up at him from their crouched positions as Derek hands them over, his whiskey browns looking impossibly large and deep, like Derek could drown in them.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, giving Derek a lopsided smile.

Maybe—maybe Derek isn’t the only one who’s nervous. Maybe Stiles feels like there’s just as much riding on this as Derek does. They stand slowly, but Derek doesn’t step back away from Stiles, staying in the other man’s space. Stiles finally manages to unlock the door and they enter, Stiles flipping on a light.

It’s a nice space, full of color; video games stacked up on the entertainment system and comic posters on the walls in the living room. There’s not much furniture, but there’s enough for the two people he knows live there. It’s warm, inviting, and Derek wonders if the apartment Stiles shared with Jackson ever looked like this.

They slip their shoes off and leave them on the mat by the entranceway. Stiles takes off his blazer, opening the closet door to hang it up. “I know it’s not much, but its home.” He motions to Derek’s jacket and Derek shrugs it off, handing it over to Stiles.

“No, it’s nice. I like it.” Derek takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I’d like to see more.”

Stiles shuts the closet and turns around to give Derek a searching look. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wooden door. “You know, Derek—nothing needs to happen tonight. We can take things as slow as you want.” Derek can feel the surprise flit over his own face. He opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles keeps talking “I don’t—I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything with me. You don’t owe me anything.” Stiles clears his throat and looks away. “I’ve waited this long; I can wait until you’re ready—”

Derek shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips, and moves forward, pressing into Stiles’ space, grabbing at his forearms where they are still crossed over his chest. He pulls Stiles’ arms to his sides and moves closer to the other man, so that their chests are nearly touching. Stiles is looking at him now, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and Derek can’t help but to close the distance and press his mouth lightly against Stiles’. “I’m ready.” Derek says quietly. “I think we’ve waited long enough.” And then he’s kissing him in earnest this time, tilting his head, moving his hands to Stiles’ sides. Stiles makes a small sound against Derek’s lips and then his hands are reaching up to settle on Derek’s shoulders, smoothing over his neck, running up into his hair.

The kiss is so much better than any of the other times. It feels _real_ in a way that being with Stiles never quite felt before; like something is fundamentally different between them now. Derek doesn’t know what it is, but as he moves his hands around to stroke up and down Stiles’ back over the material of his dress shirt, he doesn’t really care, because it feels _right_.

Derek makes a sound of protest when Stiles pulls back, even as the other man presses another chaste kiss to his mouth. Derek can feel the smile on Stiles’ lips. “Okay,” Stiles voice cracks a little and he clears it. “Okay, you want a tour, I’ll give you a tour.”

He grabs Derek’s hand, his fingers warm and a little callused when they wrap around his own, pulling him along into the various spaces. They make their way down the small hallway. Derek sees the small bathroom before Stiles points to one of the two closed doors at the end. “That’s Kira’s room. Don’t go in there unless you have a death wish. She’s super weird about her personal space. This,” Stiles says, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Derek as he opens the other door, “is my room.”

Derek doesn’t know what he’s expecting. He’s never been one to have the belief that someone’s room tells a lot about them, but he still takes in Stiles’ room nonetheless. There isn’t much in there, just a bed, desk, and a dresser, but Derek finds it charming. There are just a few shelves on the walls and a few framed pictures set up on top of the nearby dresser, along with some dance trophies that are obviously from Stiles’ competition days.

Derek lets go of Stiles’ hand and walks further into the room, looking around a little bit more before turning back to Stiles as he sits on the end of his bed.  “It’s nice.” He tells him, leaning back a little bit.

Stiles snorts and closes the door behind him, striding over to sit next to Derek. “Nice. Yeah. Kira’s been telling me for weeks that it lacks personality, but I just can’t seem to give a shit.” He shoots Derek a smirk, but then it falls from his face, replaced by something more serious. Stiles leans closer to him, bringing a hand up to wrap around the back of Derek’s neck. “God, Derek,” Stiles lets out a small sigh, “I’m so happy you called.”

Derek moves into Stiles’ touch, closing his eyes briefly when he feels Stiles’ thumb stroke over his skin. “Me too.” His eyes blink open and he shifts closer to the other man, setting one hand against Stiles’ thigh. “Stiles—I want this. I mean, I want to give this a try, if you still want to…?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question but the uncertainty in his voice gives him away. He feels Stiles tense under his hand, but before Derek can react or think to say something like never mind, Stiles turns and grabs at Derek, pushing him back against the bed while Stiles settles atop him, pinning him into the mattress. He gives Derek a quick, thorough kiss that leaves Derek a little breathless when Stiles pulls back. “You bet your fucking ass I still want to give this a shot.”

And that’s all it takes for Derek to start moving. He spreads his legs, lets Stiles fall between them, before the other man is attacking his lips once again. Derek moves his hands to find the hem of Stiles’ shirt, seeks out the soft skin, stroking his fingertips along the band of his pants before he flattens his hands to run them up along Stiles’ spine.

Stiles moves his mouth, nibbles a little at Derek’s bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to climb inside of Derek’s body. It’s desperate, but not biting, not rough; there’s an edge of something sweet to the kiss, like Stiles is trying to convey everything he can’t say. It should be too much, too soon, but Derek just melts into it, pulls Stiles down to settle closer on top of him, so that their bodies are meeting and touching through the fabric of their clothes in every way that they can.

Eventually, Stiles moves his lips down to kiss over the curve of Derek’s jaw, to scrape his teeth against his light stubble, before he starts sucking at the skin below Derek’s ear. Derek moves his hand out from under Stiles’ shirt, bringing them both around to try to unbutton it. It’s a little awkward with how little space there is between their bodies, but Derek manages to get the first two buttons undone by the time Stiles finally stops kissing at Derek’s neck and huffs out a curse, sitting back. Derek’s hands go back to making quick work of Stiles’ shirt, until he’s pushing the material over Stiles’ shoulders and to the floor. He bends up, pressing his lips to all of Stiles’ smooth skin, trailing his hands over Stiles’ chest, down his stomach, scraping lightly at the soft hairs near his belly button until Stiles shudders, pushing Derek back just a little to get at his shirt.

Derek pulls Stiles back into a kiss after that, hands still working to familiarize himself with Stiles’ body, with the way the other man’s muscles flex and twitch under his fingers. Stiles makes a small sound when one of Derek’s thumbs stroke over Stiles’ nipple and Stiles’ hips cant against his own.

The feel of Stiles’ erection rubbing against his is enough to make Derek let out a small, shuddery breath. “Stiles,” he says his name more like a moan. Stiles bites at his bottom lip, hard enough to sting, but then he’s soothing it with his tongue, rocking back against Derek’s body.

Derek can feel the heat of him, feel how hard he’s getting already, even through all of the layers of material constricting them. He settles against the bed again, throws his head back to let Stiles’ wandering mouth suck and lick at the skin of his neck, clavicle, nip at the juncture of where his throat and shoulder meet. He works his hands down Stiles’ back, spreading his legs a little wider until Stiles’ settles more firmly between them. Derek rocks his hips up into Stiles’, hard enough that the other man moans against Derek’s skin, the sound low, breathy, making Derek shiver a little.

Derek brings his hands down, fingertips dipping under the band of Stiles’ pants, slipping into them to grab at Stiles’ ass, squeezing as he rocks his hips up sharply. Stiles gasps and lifts up a little, looking down at Derek, his lips a little red and puffy. “Fuck, Derek. If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.” Stiles bends down to give Derek another deep kiss, before he’s getting up to kneel, forcing Derek’s hands out from the back of his pants.

Stiles’ hands go to Derek’s trousers, working at the button and fly until he’s got them undone, his erection presses up, still trapped a little by his Under Armour boxer-briefs, the head just starting to poke out under the waist band. Stiles makes a gesture for Derek to lift his hips and he complies, Stiles dragging his pants and underwear down his legs in one movement, dropping them to the floor.

He settles back between Derek’s legs, sitting on his heels, hands trailing up and down over Derek’s legs, fingers scratching lightly through the dark hair there. Derek smiles, reaching out to run his fingertips over Stiles’ chest, smiling slightly.

Derek thinks maybe it should be weird, naked and spread out in front of Stiles, letting the other man’s eyes rake over his body. He’d gotten used to it at the club, but he’s always been distracted by letting his body move to the music, by putting on a show and wearing his persona as a mask—but there’s no pretense here, between them. It’s just Stiles—Stiles looking at him like he can’t get enough, Stiles bending down to press his lips to Derek’s hipbone. Stiles, crouched down over him, eyes already heavy-lidded, dark and hazy with lust. There’s a flush running down to his chest, the erection in his pants so obvious it looks painful. “Derek— _fuck_ , you look so good _—_ I want to taste you. Can I?”

Stiles’ face is open, honest, showing everything that he’s feeling—everything that Derek is making him feel. In that moment, Derek wants nothing more than Stiles’ mouth on him. “Fuck. _Yes_.”

Stiles slowly licks over his lips, making them glisten a little in the light of the room, and Derek has to hold back a whimper. He brings his hands down to run teasingly up high on Derek’s bare thighs, leaning a little closer to his straining erection. “I want to eat you out,” he says, voice low and raspy—he sounds so fucking _sinful_ that Derek’s dick twitches a little. Stiles notices, his eyes trailing down to it before he sticks out his tongue, lapping once over the head.

Derek lets out a loud sound, fingers clenching into the blanket below him. Stiles does it again, this time sucking the head of Derek’s cock completely into his mouth before he lets it out with a wet-sounding pop. “Please, Derek.” Stiles bends down even more, bypassing Derek’s cock and sucking one of his balls into his mouth.

“ _Shit_ , Stiles. Yes—please. Want to feel your mouth on me.”

Stiles seems to take him at his word because he quickly licks a strip lower, over Derek’s perineum, making him swallow back another moan. “Turn over,” Stiles says moving back and off the bed for a second, just long enough for him to take the rest of his clothes off. Derek watches him for a second before he moves, turning over into the blanket, spreading his legs and lifting onto his knees just a little bit. He looks over his shoulder at Stiles, sees the other man’s look of utter lust, sees the way he licks his lips again, eyes fixed on Derek’s ass for a long moment before he moves, getting back onto the bed. He feels Stiles’ hands on his ass, massaging at his skin, pulling his cheeks apart. “I’ve never—” Derek swallows hard, “no one’s ever—”

But then Stiles is moving up to press a soft kiss to the small of Derek’s back. “Shh. It’s okay. If you want me to stop, just tell me, okay?” He waits for Derek’s hesitant nod before he settles back into his previous position.

Derek feels the soft breath of Stiles’ shaky exhale before it’s followed by the first swipe of Stiles’ tongue. It’s warm and wet, swirling and licking against his skin. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, burying his face into the mattress. At the first press of Stiles’ tongue inside of him, Derek lets out something akin to a shout in the form of Stiles’ name. Stiles’ hand adjusts, spreading him wider, and he can’t help but rock back just a little, wanting to feel his tongue deeper, wanting more of Stiles inside of him.

He never expected something like this to feel so good. When he’d been with his johns, it had been all about their pleasure, but now—Stiles was giving all of it to Derek, moving his tongue in ways that made Derek lose his breath. It makes him feel good, makes him feel wanted as more than just a body to be used. Stiles wants him, Stiles cares about him enough to give him this—and that feels better than anything else.

Derek’s so distracted by his thoughts that he doesn’t even register the fact that he can’t feel Stiles’ tongue anymore. He feels Stiles’ hands rubbing small circles against where his ass meets his thigh and looks over his shoulder again at him, feeling like he’s in a daze, brain still foggy from Stiles’ previous ministrations.

Stiles smirks down at him, one of his hands trailing up between Derek’s cheeks to ghost over his saliva-slick hole. “So. How do we wanna do this?” His words are even rougher sounding than before, the vibrations of them make something hot and heavy settle low in Derek’s stomach.

Derek thinks about it for a long moment, scanning his eyes over Stiles’ face like he’s looking for something, but he already knows what he’s going to find. This is Stiles—Stiles, who waited for him, who fell for him even though Derek’s messed up and got enough baggage to start his own thrift shop. Stiles—who, for the first time, is someone Derek actually _wants_ to be with.

“I—” he chokes a little on the words, “I want—I want you.” He punctuates his words by moving back against the finger circling his hole. “I want to feel you.”

He hears the small whimper Stiles lets out, sees the way his empty hand moves to strip his cock a few times, like just the image in his head of fucking Derek is enough to make him desperate, before he stops with a firm grip to the base. “Shit. You’re gonna fucking kill me.” And then Stiles is getting off the bed, going around to one of the cubbies in the headboard and opening it. He pulls out a tube of lube and some condoms before tossing them on the bed.

He motions for Derek to come up by him, so Derek crawls up the bed toward him. “Lay down,” he mutters, reaching out to stroke his fingers over Derek’s shoulder before he pushes until Derek’s lying on his back, head resting on a pillow. Stiles climbs back onto the bed, cock bobbing with his movements, the tip red and shiny, but then Stiles is once again settling between Derek’s spread legs. He reaches for another pillow and positions it under Derek’s hips before he grabs for the lube.

The snap of the cap is loud in the quiet room, but then Stiles is warming the lube on his fingers, bending down to hook an elbow under one of Derek’s knees, drawing it up. He moves the slick fingers of his other hand to Derek’s entrance, pressing one finger slowly inside of him and his mouth seeks out Derek’s.

They kiss as Stiles works Derek open—first with just the one finger, slowly working up to two, scissoring them until he’s loose and pliant, until Stiles’ heady kisses relax him down to the core. Stiles adds more lube, goes back with three fingers, working at him until Derek’s gasping against Stiles’ mouth, moving his hands to Stiles’ hair to tug at it, not knowing if he wants to pull him away or hold him closer. “Stiles— _please—_ please, I need—need you inside of me. _Shit_ , just fuck me.”

Stiles moves to nip at Derek’s earlobe. “Okay. Okay—just—let me—” Stiles’ weight is momentarily off of him and he makes a sound of protest, but then Stiles comes back with a condom. He lets go of Derek’s leg and sits back a little to put the condom on and add more lube. Derek lifts his knees up toward his chest. Stiles falters a little at the sight, stroking his cock, biting his lip. “Fuck, you look so good, Derek.”

But Derek knows Stiles is wrong—he’s the one that looks good; hair a mess, eyes like pools of golden sun, attractive flush making his moles stand out like spots of shade on a summer day. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he says, voice already sounding raw to his own ears.

Stiles smiles, moves closer, letting Derek hook his knees over Stiles’ shoulders, positioning himself at Derek’s entrance. He feels the head of Stiles’ slicked-up cock slide up and down the cleft of his ass, catching a little on where he’s been worked loose and open. “I bet I’ll feel even better than I look.” Stiles practically purrs the words and Derek shivers, reaching up to hook his arms around Stiles’ neck, running one hand through his hair.

Stiles presses in slowly, giving Derek time he doesn’t really need to adjust. He’s hot and hard and it’s so slick, the friction feeling amazing inside of him, Stiles filling him up inch by inch, so slow it’s almost excruciating. Once he’s slid in all the way, Stiles doesn’t move right away, even though Derek can feel the tension in Stiles’ shoulders, can feel the way he’s holding himself back. Instead, Stiles bends down to kiss Derek again, sealing their mouths together in a heated kiss. It’s only when Derek moves a hand down to trail over the curve of Stiles’ ass that he starts moving.

It starts slow, but Stiles keeps a steady rhythm, pressing in with deep drags that make Derek cry out, pulling back until just the head is inside of him, before pressing all the way back in once again. It’s a slow dance, their movements measured and matched, syncopated to the sounds of their pants and moans like music in the room, to the way each of them says the other one’s name. They cling together, their bodies twisting, swaying back and forth, hands reaching out to hold, to touch, meeting each other halfway.

Their lips press to whatever bit of sweat-slicked skin they can reach, licking over salty flesh as they rock into each other. Derek ruts up in sync with Stiles’ thrusts, taking him deeper, tightening around him, until finally, Stiles strict rhythm starts to falter. He bends down more, pressing Derek’s legs tighter to his chest—and Derek can feel the strain already, muscles of his legs twitching—but he doesn’t care, because Stiles starts to move faster, more frantic. Stiles is closer now, Derek’s cock trapped between their stomachs—the friction of so many sensations so good it’s starting to make his head spin.

Stiles is moaning a string of sounds into Derek’s neck, hips working harder, snapping into Derek’s with a fierceness that makes Derek whimper. He tightens his hold on Stiles’ hair, pulling him up to drag their lips together—more a press of their mouths than anything else—before Stiles pulls back a little. He gets up onto an elbow, the change in the angle of his thrusts hitting Derek’s prostate on every stroke. Derek starts to writhe beneath him, feeling the shocking pleasure flow through his body. He can feel himself start to leak precome in earnest, feel it pool against his belly. He makes to reach for his cock, but Stiles stops him.

Stiles is biting his lip, looking down at Derek from mere inches away. Derek gets lost in his eyes, gets lost in the way Stiles’ cock feels inside of him, gets lost in the way Stiles is making him feel like he’s going to fall apart at the seams. “I’m gonna come.” Derek pants out.

Stiles’ hips stutter—and then he’s moving faster, canting his hips in a circular motion, seeming to hit everywhere inside of Derek all at once. “Do it— _fuck_ , Derek—come for me.”

When his orgasm finally happens, it’s like falling off of a cliff. One moment he’s there under Stiles, and the next he feels his stomach swoop, feels like he’s disconnected from his body. He feels it like a crash, like something pulling at him from deep inside, like something that’s both terrifying and exhilarating, like something he knows he won’t ever be able to recover from.

Derek gets lost in the feeling of so much pleasure tiding over him. He loses his breath, loses the ability to control his limbs, shaking and shuddering, coming untouched between their bodies.

Stiles’ mouth comes back to his after that, kissing him until he feels dizzy from lack of air, until finally Stiles lets up, thrusting into him a few more stilted times, coming with a shout of Derek’s name, keeping himself deep inside of Derek’s body until he’s spent and sated.

He collapses half on top of Derek, the weight of Stiles’ body almost too heavy, but he just closes his eyes, tries to get his breath back. It’s a little while before Stiles finally moves, slipping out of Derek with a sad sound from both of them. Stiles takes off the condom, ties it off and throws it toward the wastebasket by the door.

He settles on his side and reaches for Derek, helping to turn Derek onto his side facing him—Derek still feels boneless from his orgasm—before pulling him toward him, throwing one of his arms over Derek’s side. Derek just presses his face into Stiles’ neck, ignoring the cooling come starting to go tacky on his skin, breathing in the scent of him, closing his eyes.

Eventually, Stiles presses a kiss to Derek’s forehead. “Derek?”

Derek nuzzles closer to Stiles, humming in response.

“How do you feel about eggs and bacon for breakfast?”

Derek smiles against Stiles’ skin, not even bothering to open his eyes. “I’m vegan.”

He feels Stiles freeze. “Sacrilege! Get out of my bed. I don’t trust people that don’t eat bacon.” Derek huffs out a laugh, pressing a kiss to the underside of Stiles’ jaw. Stiles lets out a matching laugh and runs his hand up and down over Derek’s side.

 “Hey, Stiles?” Derek asks after a little bit.

“Yeah?”

“I like pancakes.” He pulls back to look at Stiles, letting all of the hope he feels inside show on his face—hope that maybe Stiles is offering what Derek thinks he is—and letting Stiles know that Derek wants it, too.

Stiles lifts the side of his mouth in a small smile. “Pancakes work for me.”

They settle back down into the bed after Stiles turns off the light.

As Derek drifts off to sleep, feeling warm and happy—he thinks that for the first time in his life, maybe it’s okay to step away from the darkness and the shadows of his past.

With Stiles, it’s like he’s finally found the sun.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading this! 
> 
> It's been a wild ride. This has been one of the most emotionally exhausting things I've ever written, but I really wanted to tell this story and I think I did it as much justice as I could. 
> 
> Also, look! A happy ending!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this story.
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment or [come talk to me on tumblr](http://clawstoagunfight.tumblr.com/ask) with any and all constructive criticism!
> 
> Comments make me happy and I try to reply to all of them. Also, kudos are awesome!


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